


A Servant of Blind Will

by merisunshine36



Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-30
Updated: 2011-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-23 06:49:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merisunshine36/pseuds/merisunshine36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark and Eduardo reunite in New York for the first time since they graduated from Harvard in 1965.  As a young lawyer, Mark is trying to build an empire in a profession that doesn't want him. Eduardo is just trying to keep his family's business from falling apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Servant of Blind Will

**Author's Note:**

> Acknowledgements: Thanks to ninhursag and libitina for the initial enabling, to pjvilar for advice on how artists live, to Sue for braving the stacks for me, to everyone who left helpful research links when I begged for them, to reogulus and tam_cranver for the art and music (links coming soon!), and especially to salvadore_hart and oaktree89 (who was also my Jewish Culture Consultant) for being the best betas ever.

_"It's always so early in here, before the crossroads, before the irrevocable choices."  
-The Blue House_, by Thomas Transtormer

  
 _New York City  
March 1965_

Eduardo ducks out of the way of a stock boy pushing a precariously balanced cart full of hatboxes just in time to save his right foot from being flattened. Saverin's Fine Goods' annual spring sale starts today, and they're hoping for record crowds. They've stocked a few reasonable facsimiles of those hats debuted by Dior last month, piled high with ribbons and ruching, like a confection that is worn instead of eaten. Eduardo got them dirt cheap from a friend of his father, so they're selling them at a ridiculously low price. It won't make them any money, but it will pique the the interest of the potential customer. For an ailing chain of stores whose flagship location on Union Square is outshined daily by the twin suns of Macy's and Bloomingdale's, getting customers in the door is priority number one at this point.

“Sorry, Mr. Saverin!” the boy yells, slowing down just long enough to turn around and grin. It's Simon, a young kid whose mother has worked in the jewelry department for longer than Eduardo's been alive. He's good people, always puts in more effort than he really needs to.

“Be careful!” Eduardo warns, making what he hopes is an authoritative gesture with his clipboard. “And how many times do I have to tell you that I'm not Mr. Saverin, my father is!”

Simon is already far out of reach at that point, and Eduardo takes a second to breathe before going off to solve the next problem. There is _always_ another problem. He jogs down two flights of narrow, dimly lit stairs littered with cigarette butts that deposit him in front of gunmetal grey door. He doesn't knock before bursting in.

“Sal. Tell me you've found those pantyhose. ” Sal is a balding, middle-aged man as wide as he is tall, with the blunt end of a cigar perpetually crushed between his teeth. One of their senior buyers, he's about as outgoing as a basset hound, which serves as a handy facade for one of the most brilliant business minds Eduardo has ever seen. On more than one occasion, he's been made painfully aware that the only reason he's still head of merchandising instead of Sal is because of his last name.

The office is a colossal mess, which is why they keep Sal in the basement instead of back in the stockroom with all of the other buyers. Clip sheets from old ads posted by their competitors are stuck to the walls with yellowed tape, and files fight with odd pieces of merchandise to cover every remaining available surface. He'd only survived upstairs for a month before his workspace began to swallow everyone else's, nearly inciting a small revolt.

Sal reluctantly sets aside the skin mag he was paging through. “Eduardo, I swear, I've got my boys looking everywhere for them, it's like they disappeared into thin air," he says, palms turned up in supplication.

Eduardo gets right up in Sal's personal space and places a deceptively gentle hand on his shoulder. He does his best to keep his voice steady. “Sal. We've got an ad set to print in the _Post_ tomorrow that says 'pantyhose, three pairs for 2.97'. If we don't have them, then we can't sell them. And if we don't sell anything, my father will murder me, and when that happens? I'm taking you with me.”

Sal leans as far away from Eduardo as possible without falling out of his chair. Gilberto Saverin's temper is a thing of legend around here; everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief when the expansion of Saverin's into north Jersey meant that he couldn't keep such a close eye on the day-to-day happenings on the sales floor anymore.

“I know, I know, boss. ” Sal heaves himself up from his desk and begins ushering Eduardo toward the door. From somewhere overhead, a bell chimes — it's nine a.m. and the store is opening. “Look, don't worry, I'll get them for you, some way. Now get out of here.”

Eduardo claps Sal on the shoulder and gives him an encouraging smile, allowing the panythose mystery to be be set on the back burner for now. He gets up one flight of stairs before leaning back over the railing and yelling, “we hired you because you're the best, Sal — don't prove us wrong!”

Back on the sales floor, there's a small but growing stream of people coming through the door and making a beeline for the millinery department. Eduardo places himself behind a sales counter and watches a cluster of females gather in front of the displays, jostling each other in that faux-polite way that says they'd be out for blood should anyone lay a finger on whichever hat their eye is set on. His father likes it, says it generates excitement about the store. It just makes Eduardo anxious.

What does surprise him, however, is the lone curly-headed gentleman weaving across the floor, who is obviously lost. He holds himself stiffly, flinching whenever he's jostled out of the way by a particularly sharp-elbowed matron. Eduardo takes pity on him and smoothly navigates his way through the crowd in order to catch him by the elbow.

“Excuse me, sir, may I--," the end of the sentence trails off into a surprised laugh. "Mark Zuckerberg, is that you?”

He hasn't seen Mark since he finished his undergraduate career at Harvard some five years ago. They were never terribly close--Eduardo was a year older, and buried in his own studies. But they had a common friend in Dustin Moskovitz, who was Mark's third try at a roommate after the first two had moved out inside of a month.

Dustin turned up in a few of Eduardo's courses in Economics, and was persuasive enough that he'd gotten Eduardo to join him and Mark for supper on a few occasions. They argued about anything and everything--a debate about the space race would roll over into talks on the Communist threat in Vietnam, which would cue Dustin wondering whether or not his cousin in Israel would take him in should there be another draft. More often than not things ended at a standstill, either when whatever bar they were in shut down for the evening, or when Mark decided he was right and tuned out everyone else.

Eduardo watches the pieces fall into fall into place as Mark remembers who he is.

“Eduardo. Why weren't you here five minutes ago when I was being assaulted by marauding grandmothers?" Mark is as blunt as ever, wielding his personality like a hammer. "I spilled coffee on my shirt and I need to get to work, but this floor is nothing but women and hats.”

"Still getting right to the point, Mark. You haven't changed at all." Whereas most of Mark's acquaintances responded to his behavior by vacating the premises (or in Dustin's case, short-sheeting his bed), Eduardo always found himself oddly amused by Mark's duck-footed stumbling through the social graces that Eduardo was drilled on from the time he could speak. Eduardo's mouth tilts upward into a smile. “Don't worry, you've found the right man. Stick with me and I'll make sure you're taken care of.”

With one hand on Mark's shoulder, he steers him toward the bank of elevators and watches him look around the store as they wait. Saverin's is a museum dedicated to modern day objects. The haughty old building is quite proud of its marble floors, delicate brass scrolling running the length of each staircase railing, and extravagant crystal chandeliers that his grandfather imported from France when relocating from Fulton Street in Brooklyn to Union Square in 1937.

“The last time I was in here was when I had a suit fitting for my bar mitzvah,” Mark says. “It was the first time I'd been outside of Brooklyn.”

Eduardo fingers the brown cloth of Mark's suit under the pretense of brushing an imaginary piece of lint from his shoulder. It's a few years out of date—lapels are bit narrower these days. There's a slight shininess at the elbows where the fabric is worn from repeated wearings. It reminds Eduardo of how he used to dress in college, always in the same tired sweaters with tiny moth-holes near the collar. If Dustin isn't around anymore, then it's highly unlikely that Mark has anyone around to protect him from himself.

“So who does your shopping now? The wife?”

Mark shakes his head. "My mother picks up a few things, and what she doesn't take care of I send Erica out to get.”

“Erica?”

“Our office manager. At the firm. I took her with me when she graduated from BU.”

Eduardo raises his eyebrows, somewhat surprised. During his time at Harvard, he could count the number of women he shared classes with on both hands. He hadn't pegged Mark for a progressive, but one could never tell. The elevator dings softly. The operator holds the door open to let them off, nodding at Eduardo as he passes.

“Shirts. Great,” Mark says, his eyes going back and forth, systematically scanning everything they have for sale.

“You should buy one for your mother; they're on sale this week.”

“What for? She already has one.” Mark checks his watch again. It's heavy, gold, good quality workmanship. Eduardo feels a little guilty about assessing him this way, but he can't help it. Noticing what people wear and what they buy is his job.

Mark exhales loudly through his nose, like the shirts have personally offended him by existing. “I'm not particular. I just need a shirt. Recommend something.”

Eduardo takes out his ever-present measuring tape and quickly finds the length of Mark's shoulders, then lifts Mark's chin upward to get a collar size. There's a hint of stubble there, where he's missed a spot with the razor. Eduardo wants to recommend that he visit the barber down the street, but Mark is already fidgeting beneath his touch, so Eduardo bites his tongue. Eduardo thinks for a moment — Mark would want something durable, washable, yet appropriate for his profession. Not exactly an easy order to complete.

“So, you've already got your own firm?” Eduardo asks, trying to keep a lid on his own feelings of jealousy. He had plans of his own to go to law school at one time. Unfortunately, his father's health had decided not to cooperate, and he was dragged back to Manhattan to work at Saverin's the moment the mortarboard came off his head.

Mark raises himself a little taller, eager for the chance to talk about himself. “Yeah, with Moskovitz, in fact. And Chris Hughes. I don't think you knew him.”

“Hughes?” Eduardo raises a questioning eyebrow. “His father isn't Jewish?"

"Neither is his mother. Does it matter?" Mark's eyes are narrowed to two slits, like he's already gunning for a fight.

"No, no," Eduardo backs off the subject quickly. "I'm just surprise you snatched him away from Wall Street, is all. You must be a better lawyer than I thought."

“At Harvard, we were...” Eduardo notices him slow down and carefully pick his words. “We were close.”

Eduardo realizes there's something Mark isn't telling him, but he lets the subject drop. He leads the way past the Izod shirts that haven't moved an inch due to their hefty ten-dollar price tag. Despite the move to Manhattan, Saverin's still mostly attracts customers who are looking for a bargain. He stops at the Phillips-Van Heusen display that went up last week. All their garments are permanent press; meant to accommodate people just like Mark. Eduardo wouldn't be caught dead in one--he hates the stuffy, plastic-y feel of polyester against his skin. He pulls one off the rack and holds it up for Mark's review.

“This. This is perfect for you. You'll never have to iron it a day in your life.”

“I'll take it,” Mark says, and begins unbuttoning his soiled shirt.

“Hold your horses, buddy.” Eduardo forgot the single-minded focus on his goals that Mark displayed to exclusion of all else. “There are ladies in this department. Let me take you to a dressing room.”

Mark changes in record time, and deems the shirt acceptable with barely a glance in the mirror. Eduardo takes him to the cashier, whom he brushes aside so that he can handle the transaction himself. Their brief reunion reminds him of everything he misses about Harvard; Eduardo regrets that they're going to part ways again so soon. He always liked Mark for his lightning-fast intelligence, the sharp tongue that had made him notorious on campus. Mark was thrown out of more than one class for arguing with his professors; arguments which he continued in the pages of the _Crimson_.

He notices Mark staring ruefully at the faint brown splotch on his other shirt. In all likelihood, it's going to be shoved into a bag of clothes that won't meet water until it's too late for the shirt to be rescued. On impulse, Eduardo reaches for it, saying, “Here — let me take care of that.”

“I don't know when I can make it back. I keep late hours.”

Eduardo waves his concern away. “Don't worry, I'll have someone deliver it to your office. Think of it as a favor, from one Harvard man to another.” Eduardo pulls out a notepad and pen, the constant companion to to his measuring tape, and pushes it toward Mark.

Mark shrugs and begins scrawling the address of his firm on the notepad in barely-legible script. His long fingers are stained with ink, the nails bitten almost to the quick.

“Just have someone drop that off later. I don't care when.” He stuffs his billfold back into his pocket and dashes off before Eduardo can offer to escort him to the door.

“It was nice seeing you too, Mark Zuckerberg.” Eduardo stares at the door for a while, before the cashier he pushed aside pointedly clears his throat.

“Excuse me, Mr. Saverin, but there's a line forming.”

Eduardo ducks his head, sheepish, before apologizing and removing himself from the sales floor once again. He finds Simon taking a smoke break near the back door. Eduardo hands him Mark's shirt along with three dollars and instructions to drop it off at the cleaners and have it back by five.

“What happens if I'm late?" Simon asks, mock-serious. He blows the smoke out in three perfect rings, mouth shaped in a perfect O. Eduardo's breath catches in his throat. There's an offer hidden in Simon's words if Eduardo wants to take it--it wouldn't be the first time.

"We have very strict rules about timeliness here," replies Eduardo, careful to keep his tone even.

Simon grins crookedly and shakes his head, brown hair falling into his eyes. “Have it your way, Mr. Saverin,” he says, and escapes before Eduardo can change his mind. Eduardo watches him as he weaves in and out through the carts and people scurrying around the stockroom, each one a single gear in the great machinery that makes Saverin's run.

  


..:::...

  
Eduardo soon forgets about Mark and his sartorial woes as he's sucked back into his work. There is leftover stock to be re-sold to other stores, new merchandise to be inspected, and competitors to spy on. Before he knows it, it's time for him to call it quits. Eduardo makes his way back to his office, dispensing handshakes and back pats to his staff as they pack up and head out for the day. Most everyone is gone when he makes it to the low-ceilinged corridor where his office is located, his own little oasis of solitude amidst all the chaos.

The leather of the swivel chair at his desk shifts and creaks as he settles in to get some paperwork done, approving major purchases and toying with ideas on how to get rid of that backlog of hula hoops they have left over from last summer. Maybe he can give one away to anyone who buys a bikini.

He plugs away at work for a good half-hour before a knock on the door pulls him out of his reverie.

"Come in," Eduardo calls. He'd been digging through his drawer looking for a new cartridge for his fountain pen--he's sure he left one somewhere.

There's a crinkle of plastic and a puff of air as a dry cleaning bag lands on his desk. Eduardo looks up only to find Simon perched on the edge, his legs spread apart suggestively.

"You're late," Eduardo says, as his heart rate picks up in anticipation. "It's after six already."

"Oh yeah?" Simon's words are loaded with a challenge that's impossible to ignore.

All his life, Eduardo prided himself on being a dutiful son, good student, hardworking employee. But this--this is his vice. Boys, _men_ , all sizes and shapes and ages, especially if they're a little mean to him. Deliberately, he rolls his chair backward, the squeak of the wheels loud in his ears. Simon accepts the unspoken invitation and moves around to the front of the desk, letting Eduardo trap him between his legs.

He runs his hand over the lean muscle of Simon's thighs, the product of the eight miles he runs every morning. Eduardo makes quick work of Simon's trousers, taking only a moment to mouth at the wet spot on the front of his briefs before yanking them down and off.

"Why the hurry?" There's laughter in Simon's voice, but also a hidden current of irritation.

"This is my _office_."

"That's also your name in six-foot letters on the front of the building."

Eduardo ignores him; places a not-quite gentle bite on the inside of his thigh. Simon moans a little and leans back to rest his weight on his elbows, spreading his legs as far apart as they can go, his short, fat cock half-hard in its nest of curls.

Eduardo loves this part. The almost-choking feeling as his mouth is filled, the sharp smell of sweat, the distant pain in his jaw that builds the longer he holds out. The only warning Simon gives is a sharp yank on Eduardo's hair before a spurt of liquid floods his mouth, salty and warm.

Clumsily, Eduardo undoes his own fly. It only takes a few rough strokes before he's shooting come onto the concrete floor. The rush of pleasure takes his breath away, and for a moment he just sits there panting, unable to move, the taste of Simon still heavy on his tongue.

"I have to stop doing this," Eduardo murmurs as he rests his forehead against the smooth skin of Simon's thigh. Simon runs his fingers through Eduardo's hair, down the side of his face while while they both enjoy the slow trip back down to earth.

"Why? It makes you feel good, don't it?"

"It's different for you," says Eduardo. Simon doesn't have a company he stands to inherit one day. He won't ever have to go to cocktail parties or political functions with a wife on his arm. Eduardo pulls away and begins looking for a handkerchief so he can wipe off his hands.

"Only if you let it be," Simon insists. Eduardo doesn't reply--back when he was twenty, he thought he understood everything, too.

“Oh, shit,” Eduardo says as his eye falls on the dry cleaning bag draped over the far corner of his desk. “Mark.” He checks the time — 6:23. He's probably still at the office, but Eduardo also has a standing Tuesday night dinner appointment at his parent's house that he probably shouldn't miss.

He hustles Simon out of the office, but only after checking the corridor first.

"You wanna grab a drink? There's this bar down in Times Square called the Blue Bunny--"

Eduardo quells his enthusiasm with a single look. "And let everyone in Manhattan know that Eduardo Saverin is a fag? You're a good guy, Simon, but this," he gestures to the space between them, "can never leave this office. You got it?"

Simon frowns and kicks at the dirty floor with the scuffed toe of one sneaker. "Sure, fine. Good night then, Mr. Saverin."

Eduardo watches him leave before ducking back into his office again. He knocks back some of the whiskey he keeps in his desk to burn the smell of come off his breath, then scribbles a note to himself about looking into a promotion for Simon. There are a few positions in the store out in Newark that need filling.

The coat rack wobbles a little as he grabs his things and hurries out the back door of the store. He nearly collides with the night guard in his haste to leave, and Eduardo is positive that the glance he tosses Eduardo's way isn't as friendly as usual, like maybe he knows something.

He breathes a little easier once he's outside again. The fleeting warmth of spring is slowly leaving the air as the sun disappears for another day, now only an orange splotch behind the clouds. Eduardo usually enjoys walking around Manhattan, but opts to hail a cab instead and allows his brain to unwind for a moment or two.

His thoughts ultimately land on the subject they'd been circling all day long--Mark. He'd always seemed so sure of himself, unlike Eduardo. He would have been a natural leader on campus if it weren't for the casual disdain with which he treated the other students. It was another strike against him at a school where the admissions interview included a casual inquiry as to whether or not one was a "Sabbath observer". He wonders what Mark's answer was. Eduardo told a version of the truth--that there was only one religion in his family, and it was retail.

He still feels guilty about that.

..:::..

Zuckerberg, Moskowitz, & Hughes, LLP occupies the second floor of an unassuming little Midtown walk-up. It's a far cry from the white shoe firms of Wall Street, but everyone has to start somewhere. Eduardo jogs up two flights of stairs, pausing to breathe for a moment before knocking hard on the locked door with the back of his knuckles.

It opens before Eduardo can take his hand away to reveal an exhausted-looking ginger fellow with a sandwich in one hand and his tie tossed over his shoulder. His shirt is a little rumpled, like he's been wearing it for more than one day.

“Dustin?” Eduardo asks hesitantly, unsure if Dustin will remember him. They've exchanged a few letters since they last parted ways, but never managed to arrange a face to face reunion until now.

Dustin's face breaks into an enormous grin that lights up his entire face. He catches Eduardo's hand in an enthusiastic handshake that Eduardo feels juddering all the way up to his elbow.

“Eduardo Saverin! What brings you out of retail heaven to this neck of the woods?” He steps back to allow Eduardo to come inside. "Get tired of your luxurious life and decide to stick it out in the trenches with us grunts?"

He holds up the dry cleaning bag in response. “Mark's shirt lost a fight with a cup of coffee this morning. He stopped by Saverin's to make use of our extensive selection of fine menswear, as well as our laundry service.”

“Since when does Saverin's have a cleaning service?” Dustin says around a mouthful of sandwich. A spot of mustard clings to the corner of his mouth.

“Since I needed an excuse to come up and visit you in your new office. It's been ages since the last time I saw you guys; you've been hiding from me in my own city.”

“Us? Never, buddy. I'm just trying to hide the rest of New York from Mark. I tell you, send him over there to Nam to deal with those Viet Cong and we'd be in and out in six months because they'd all die from annoyance. Come on, I'll take you to him.”

The waiting room is neat and tidy, no doubt due to the tireless work of their office manager who, judging by her empty chair, has the good sense to go home at five. It's terribly compact — one desk out front followed by a small hallway with two offices, a conference room, and a kitchen that probably used to be a closet. A few pieces of cheap art decorate the walls, just enough to maintain necessary appearances, and a depressed-looking ficus stands in one corner.

Mark has the solo office, big enough for his desk and a separate table at which he and the person Eduardo assumes is Chris have dumped all the files involving one of their current cases. Chris is quietly insistent as he argues whatever point he's making at the moment, but they sit close to one another, their voices low. When Chris notices him enter the room, he hesitates a moment before sliding his arm from the back of Mark's chair. He brushes a bit of imaginary lint from his dove grey trousers and rises from his chair to greet the newcomer.

“Eduardo? What are you doing here?” Mark looks up from his work. He has one pen tucked behind his ear and a second in his right hand, while his left holds his place in a giant book. His suit jacket and tie have been tossed over the back of a chair. Together it all makes him look rather young, like a kid playing at being an adult.

“I brought your shirt,” Eduardo replies.

“Thanks, just drop it anywhere,” Mark says, and goes back to scribbling down whatever he was working on before.

“Allow me to apologize for the horrible manners of our fearless leader,” Chris extends a hand to Eduardo in greeting, a smile on his face that doesn't quite reach his eyes. “Chris Hughes. I don't remember you from Harvard law — did you go to the business school?”

"Eduardo Saverin." He feels a little warm now that he's inside--no one has asked to take his coat, either. “No. Dustin and I studied Economics together while we were undergraduates, and after I graduated I left to work in the family business. Saverin's, down on Union Square.”

Dustin places a hand on each of their shoulders, like he has a particularly scandalous secret he wants to share. “Wardo here is our very own heiress. But more importantly, did you know that he was an esteemed member of the Dustin Moskovitz fanclub while we were at Harvard?”

Chris' eyes go wide in an expression of false wonder. “Ah, the elusive one and only member.”

“Hey,” Dustin says, “I'll have you know that at its highest point, we had five members. Five members is plenty respectable.”

Mark drops his pen down on top of his files, having abandoned all hope of getting any work done. “Dustin, we've discussed this. Your sisters don't count.”

Eduardo shakes his head. Dealing with his older sister Elis is enough--he can't imagine multiplying her by three.

"Of course they count! We would have had six members, but Riva refused to join.”

An intense wave of nostalgia washes over Eduardo. He misses this; the easy camaraderie between equals that he experienced during his time as a student. At one time, he thought this would be his future--a firm of his own, picking out the cases that seemed most interesting to him, working with colleagues with similar goals. At work, it's just him and his sister; everyone else is one of his father's handpicked cronies. Between his responsibilities at the store and the daily motions of life, he hasn't had much time left for companionship.

"What are you working on?" Eduardo does his best to disguise the naked curiosity in his voice.

"Settling an estate," Chris sighs. "Two sons, a daughter, and the second wife. The wife insists there is a newer, revised will with her name featured prominently, but it's located beneath the floorboards in the bedroom of the deceased. The only documents we have on hand declare the house should be given to the eldest son, who hates his stepmother. He wasn't exactly thrilled when she suggested we rip the bedroom apart to look for a document that _might_ be there, nevertheless one that would significantly water down his inheritance."

"Ouch," Eduardo winces.

Chris sheds some of the formality he'd exhibited when Eduardo first arrived and rests his hip against the edge of the table. He works a finger into the knot of his lavender tie and sighs at the sweet relief of being able to breathe again.

"It's not as interesting as it sounds," says Mark. There's a bitter twist to the edge of his mouth. "The Winklevosses would never dream of touching an estate this small. We need something bigger."

"You involved in corporate litigation?" Eduardo ventures. "My father's lawyer is making a mint in that field."

It's not something he knows a lot about--just a few conversations in the smoke-filled parlor of his parents' place with colleagues of his father, men who always smell of mothballs and the tiger balm they slather on their arthritic joints. But Eduardo loves those afternoons. It's a brief glimpse into a world that was snatched away from him. Moneyed empires rise and fall, and all with the stroke of a pen.

"See, Eduardo is on my side," Mark replies, his eyes lighting up. "Yes, we are, but not as much as we need to be. It's about 30% of our invoices at the moment, but I want to double that by the end of FY '67."

"Here we go again," Dustin mutters, spinning idly in his chair.

"It's crass," Chris says. "Proxy fights, derivative suits--we're supposed to be above all that. I didn't spend three years busting my ass in law school to help rich corporations get richer."

"Business is business--I've got rent to pay," says Dustin with a shrug.

"Business we only have because Winklevoss is content to pass Mark his sloppy seconds." Chris' expression shifts into something meaner, and Eduardo can see that there's an old hurt there, buried deep but not forgotten.

"You worked for Winklevoss?"

It's an understatement to say that Eduardo's a little shocked. It's widely acknowledged that Howard Winklevoss is one of the best lawyers in the game, with his twin sons riding hot on his heels. A palpable ripple was felt in the ranks of the Manhattan elite when they took on their first Jewish client back in '61--Vivian Straus, the sole surviving heir to the Macy's fortune. But even the Straus name couldn't shake the fact that the roster of partners at Winklevoss, Swaine, and Moore remained wholly Protestant, unable to be uprooted even as the world changed around them.

"I _worked_ for them," Mark replies, his eyes cold. "Past tense. Now they contract out a few cases to us on occasion. Ultimately, I'm going to beat them at their own game."

"Maybe if you beg nicely, they'll let you make partner one day," Chris mutters.

Mark's knuckles turn white as his grip on his pen tightens. "Chris, you are welcome to leave at anytime. You know where the door is."

Dustin tosses a balled up piece of paper at Chris' head. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, calm down. We have guests."

Chris just snorts and grabs his suit jacket. "I need a break. I'm going to buy a pack of cigarettes--anyone want anything?"

"A wife!" Dustin shoves the remainder of his sandwich into his mouth. "I have to go all the way back to my mother's place in Flatbush to get a decent meal these days."

"You want her on rye or on wheat?" Chris asks, his voice deadpan. He's still not looking at Mark, but Dustin's well-timed comment injected some needed levity into the conversation. The tension eases out of the room like a storm cloud sent on its way by a passing breeze.

"I don't know," Dustin grins. "Surprise me."

Eduardo wastes a few more minutes shooting the breeze with Dustin and Mark before letting them get back to work. Mark seems visibly relaxed now that Chris is gone. Eduardo makes a mental note to coax their backstory out of Dustin when he gets in a chance--Mark says they were close, but it appears that's not the whole shebang. Eduardo departs with their contact information scribbled into his address book, a standing invitation to dinner, and a feeling of contentment that he hasn't experienced in a long time.

  
..::::...

  
By the time a taxi drops Eduardo off at his parents' Park Avenue duplex, he knows that he's missed what little was left of dinner. He slips in the doorway and sneaks down one of the back hallways toward the kitchen, which is, as he expected, silent and empty. His stomach growls in protest — he should have taken a page from Dustin's book and stopped off at a deli on the way home. As quietly as possible, he eases open the refrigerator door and pulls out the platter of leftover roast chicken along with some lettuce and a tomato. He tries to remember where their cook, Mrs. June, keeps the bread nowadays. He doesn't have to steal as much food as he used to; his memory is rusty.

Unfortunately his act of espionage is ruined when the door from the dining room to the kitchen swings wide open. His sister Elis stands there, smirking, the smoke from her cigarette spiraling lazily into the air.

“Well look who's decided to grace us with his presence,” she drawls. “Eduardo Saverin, the prodigal son."

Eduardo finishes assembling his leftovers into a passable sandwich and brings it out into the dining room, where his mother and sister have empty coffee cups in front of them and his father, a half-drained tumbler of scotch. His mother does her best to radiate disappointment at him without actually frowning, because she abhors wrinkles. He chooses a seat to the left of Elis, which places him as far away from his father as possible.

“Eduardo, where have you been?” his father says, his hand clutched tightly around his glass. Gilberto reluctantly gave up smoking after his heart attack five years ago, but nothing has been able to make him part ways with his scotch.

“Oh yes, Eduardo, we were worried sick,” Elis chimes in, batting her dark eyelashes. “New York is a dangerous city, you know.”

Eduardo chokes down the mass of bread stuck to the roof of his mouth. He forgot the mustard; it's too dry. It takes him a moment until he's able to drink enough water so that he can speak again. Whatever he says, his father will still be angry with him. So there's no point in rushing things, is there?

“I ran into an old friend from Harvard. Mark Zuckerberg? He's set up a law firm in Midtown.”

His mother shakes her head. “I don't understand what the problem is with young people these days. They're so quick to rebel and go out on their own. There are a number of good Jewish firms in the city, what's wrong them? If you'd just be patient and learn from your elders, maybe there wouldn't be so much looting and rioting in the streets.”

“Rioting in the streets?” Eduardo pushes his plate away from him. It slides easily across the heavy green damask tablecloth, which probably cost more than most people made in a month. “I was just out there; law and order still reigns on the streets of Manhattan.”

Elis grins wickedly. “Mom and Dad are upset because Mrs. June went down to Selma for the week. She wants to join up with Dr. King and the protesters.”

“She doesn't need to be down there,” Gilberto says, shaking his head. “June has everything she needs right here. We pay her well, we charge her below market rate for that apartment she rents from me up in Harlem — there is no reason for her to go down there and put her life at risk like that.”

“Maybe she has family down there," Eduardo suggests. He knows he's bringing it up just for the sake of argument. As much as he wants his father's approval, he's always had an equally strong desire to antagonize him. “June has a life that has nothing to do with us.”

“Can you imagine if I went down there?” Elis rests her chin in one hand, getting that vague look in her eyes that she has whenever a new idea is brewing. “In a way, it makes sense, that I should go down there and lend a hand to the Negro effort.”

“Elis, be sensible,” Gilberto interrupts. His voice is as calm as it always is when he's dealing with his only daughter, whom he's doted on from the moment she opened her eyes.

Eduardo snorts. “You don't know anything at all about Alabama. And don't you think we've had enough fighting?”

“I wouldn't expect you to understand, Eduardo.” Elis stabs her cigarette out in the crystal ashtray at her elbow. “Besides, It's not like you can stop me from going.”

“You most certainly will not!” Their mother brings her hand down on the table, and everyone falls into shocked silence. Regina Saverin is usually the epitome of ladylike behavior. She's involved in more charitable work than anyone can keep track of, and runs an etiquette class for the National Council of Jewish Women one Wednesday a month. The only other time Eduardo's seen her look so upset was when Gilberto suffered his first heart attack. “Do you want to end up like those two poor boys, Goodman and Schwerner? Dead? If you think they'll care down South that you are a Saverin, you're wrong. To them you're just another Jew, and they'll shoot you as soon as look at you. You are not leaving this city, and that is final.”

"There's no need to be upset, now. Elis isn't going anywhere except into her office at the store." Gilberto takes Regina's hand in his and rubs his thumb over the ridges of her knuckles.

Regina reaches for coffee cup and looks vaguely puzzled to find it empty. “June! I need a glass of water and my pills, I can feel my pressure going up.”

They all wait for her to realize that June isn't there. Their father is glaring daggers at the both of them at this point, and before anyone can say anything more, Eduardo gets up from the table and grabs Elis by the arm, hauling her towards the kitchen.

“Don't worry, I know where her pills are. We'll be right back.”

Once they're safely ensconced in the cool silence of the kitchen, Eduardo scrubs a weary hand over his face. He's trying to remind himself why he thinks visiting his parents is ever a good idea. He's sure that somewhere in the world there are people who love their parents and enjoy spending time with them. If he ever meets them, he's going to ask them how they do it.

“You don't really know where her pills are, do you?” asks Elis, filling a glass of water from the tap.

“No, I just wanted to get out of there,” Eduardo confesses. “Why do you always provoke them like that? I know they like you best, but every time you get their tempers up the rest of the world has to deal with it, too. Namely me.”

“Aw, don't pout, Eduardo. Second best isn't such a bad place to be.”

She grins at him and begins downing the glass of water for herself in big, wet gulps. Eduardo turns around and begins opening and shutting drawers in search of the mysterious pills, needing something to do so he doesn't throttle Elis. He loves his sister as much as he resents her bossy, pushy nature, the way she doesn't let up regardless of whether her opponents are the other girls in the debate club she ruled with an iron fist while at Barnard, or the white-haired members of the board of directors at Saverin's who insisted that naming a woman as director of marketing would mean certain ruin for the company. In the end, she overpowered them all. But she never stopped wanting more.

“Don't you ever dream of doing anything big, Eddie? Something bigger than Daddy's little store?” She leans against the counter, presses the cool glass against the side of her face. “Don't you ever think about the future and wonder things like, what if you were the President. I think I'd make a good President. I could host a big giant seder for Passover and there would be a hundred kids out on the lawn looking for the afikomen. We could air it on national television. Don't you ever think about anything like that?”

“No, I don't. Why would I want to be President? It looks like a horrible job. And stop calling me Eddie.”

“I only do it because it annoys you.”

“I know.” He opens the last cabinet, and is relieved to find a brown glass bottle of pills inside. “Here it is! I found it.”

She swipes it from his hand. “Ooh, thank you. I should probably handle this.”

Eduardo just shakes his head. “Don't you ever get tired of this constant need to win? Don't you ever just want to relax?”

She looks at him as if he'd just suggested they take a flying leap out the window. “You're so silly, Eduardo. Why would I ever do a thing like that?”

..:::..

  
The following day finds Eduardo burnt out by lunchtime, his mind unable to focus on anything due to the clamoring of his empty stomach. He sticks his head into the little nook that they'd turned into an office for his secretary, Nancy. He wants his schedule cleared for the afternoon--he doesn't feel like dealing with anyone.

“Are you sure about that?” she asks, raising a skeptical blonde eyebrow. “You've got a two o' clock with your sister, and you know how she gets when you cancel on her.”

Eduardo groans. He's not ready to deal with her again after last night. “If it's Elis, definitely cancel it. Cancel it and reschedule it for the second week after never.”

He lets himself out one of the side entrances, a dingy alleyway populated by bums by day and at night, the odd streetwalker looking to treat late-working staff after a long day of labor. It of smells urine and the odd piles of trash that fall from the back of the garbage trucks. He pulls the collar of his coat up around his chin against the brisk wind pushing its way between the buildings and heads south towards Houston, thinking he might wander down to Katz's for a change.

He feels significantly lighter with every step he puts between himself and the store. He'd never fancied himself a retail man. Secretly, he had hoped that Elis would be so wonderful at her job that they'd ignore him and let him go off traveling for a few years, see the world, play around in the financial markets a bit. Go back to law school. Maybe he would have never stopped traveling, and Elis would have had to step into the role of CEO once their father passed away. There was no doubt in his mind that she'd enjoy that.

While waiting for the light to change, he finds himself staring at a squat little Chinese restaurant tucked between a cobbler and a radio repair shop whose battered awning has seen better days. The name _Golden Dragon_ is printed on the sign in big gold letters. His stomach growls — he hasn't eaten anything beyond a hasty 7 a.m. breakfast of toast and coffee — and Eduardo makes a mid-game decision to duck inside. He's not as enamored of Chinese food as some people he knows, but it makes for a nice change from time to time. It's something different from the usual fare he has for lunch, sweet and spicy and savory and unlike anything else his mother (or rather, his mother's cook) ever fed him.

Cramped is the only way to describe the place. The lingering scents of ginger and garlic mingle with tobacco smoke and that same closed-in mustiness that all old restaurants have. In a nook near the counter sits a statue of a short fat man, who is kept company by a shot glass full of clear liquid and a prickly forest of smudged-out incense sticks.

After waiting a few minutes Eduardo is led to his table by a willowy-thin girl who darts between the tables serving customers while outfitted in a pair of precariously tall boots that come up to her knees. He should ask her where she got them — Elis would probably love a pair.

She motions for to him follow, leading him through a dining area that could probably stand to lose a few tables. Every now and then, she clips the corner of one of the tables with her hip, and the little ceramic bottles of soy sauce and chili peppers rattle against each other.

“Are you new here?” Eduardo can't help but ask once he's been installed at a table in the corner. “I noticed you were having a little bit of trouble there.”

She stares at him blankly for a moment, and he wonders if she doesn't speak English. As he waits for an answer, he realizes that she's actually pretty, with dark hair that cascades past her shoulders and sharp black eyes highlighted by round cheeks.

“Yes and no,” she answers, and he's surprised to find that she doesn't exhibit the kind of accent that his cousin Norman likes to make fun of whenever he gets too drunk at a family gathering, but instead has the same pinched, nasal tones that all Lower East Siders seem to possess. “My father owns this place and he's sick, so I'm covering for him. I worked here a lot as a kid, but not so much anymore.”

He likes the matter of fact way she talks, so unlike most of the people he's around. “It's good of you to pitch in like this. What do you normally do? Are you in school?”

“I'm studying art,” she replies, and smiles for the first time. It's a beautiful smile, open and friendly like a toothpaste commercial.

Art school — Eduardo's never known anyone who did something like that. If he'd left high school and told his father he was going to study art, he'd currently be floating down the Hudson. Art was something you bought as a tax shelter and occasionally admired, not something you made.

“Oh, really? What do you do? Do you paint?”

“Hmm. Sometimes. Not always. I want to get into performance art. Sometimes with music, sometimes not. I like the kind of real, visceral expression you get when a group of people are coming together around an idea. You know, like those happenings people are doing now.”

“Happenings,” Eduardo tests the word in his mouth, although he has no idea what she's talking about. Elis is the art person in the family; Eduardo never sets foot in a gallery unless it's for a charity function. “I've never seen one before. Where are they?”

Someone back in the kitchen yells a jumble of words he can't understand, and she turns around and yells a jumble of words right back at them. “Look, I gotta go. If you want to come to my show, there's a poster for it near the front door. But for now, just tell me what you want to so I don't get in trouble again.”

“Okay, sure, I'll come. And uh, give me whatever you think is good.”

"You sure?"

"I trust you." Eduardo surrenders his menu, and she's about to turn around and head back into the kitchen when he calls after her. “Wait! I don't know your name. I'm Eduardo.” He offers his hand.

She responds with a brief, loose-fingered shake before letting her hand fall to her side again.

“I'm Christy. Christy Lee.”

  


..:::..

  
He's on his third drink of the night when Elis tracks him down. He'd found the perfect place to hide in the Guggenheim, behind a narrow column that exists only for aesthetic purposes. He's been hiding out for the past thirty minutes, watching the traffic streak past him on the street below and wishing he were outside instead of being chased around the spiral interior of the museum by politicians and mamas, both of whom are more interested in his money than anything of substance, like the last book he read or what he thought of the political situation in Israel.

“Eduardo Saverin, you lush,” Elis says, peering around the column. She's wearing all purple tonight, with three strands of jet black pearls around her neck. Her hair is in a gravity-defying up-do made possible only by gallons of hairspray. “You can't hide at your own sister's event.”

“I was doing really well so far,” he replies, but says goodbye to his little corner and moves out onto the main floor with her.

Elis recently tired of all of the art crammed onto the walls of the little apartment their parents bought for her, so she decided to donate the majority of it to the Guggenheim and start anew. She tended to do this kind of thing every now and then, with her wardrobe, her books, her boyfriends. Just throw them out and start over. At the least this time, it meant a free party, as the museum director bends over backward in appreciation of her largesse.

“Father is looking for you, he wants you to meet the Winklevosses,” she murmurs into his ear. There are people pressed close all around them, oohing and aahing over the art, and smiling at Elis in an attempt to get her attention.

“The Winklevosses are here? What do they want with us?” He snags an hors d'oeuvres from a tray as it floats past. Stuffed mushroom, and not too bad, either. Eduardo sucks the oil from his fingers, ignoring Elis' disapproving frown.

She looks over her shoulder to make sure no one is listening in, then leans in close. “I heard that one of Howard Winklevoss' clients, Federated Department Stores, is looking to buy out Saverin's.”

“What?” Eduardo winces at the sound of his voice, louder than he'd intended. He lowers his voice to a whisper. “What?”

“I know! Isn't it exciting?”

“What does Dad think?”

Elis shrugs. “Don't know, haven't asked him yet. But think about it--he controls twenty-seven percent of the shares for Saverin Holdings, Inc., and between you and I, we've got another twenty-six. So assuming that he wants to sell, he'll need both of us on his side, or one of us and a few board members.”

“And assuming he doesn't want to sell?”

He never gets an answer, because his father spots them in that moment and waves him over. Elis gives him a little push and disappears into the crowd again, leaving him to face the firing squad alone.

The Winklevoss twins are enormous, like two godlets plucked right out of the annals of Norse mythology and dropped into present-day Manhattan. They're broad-shouldered with bright blond hair and winning smiles, making Eduardo and his father, who are of a respectable height compared to the average male, look like dwarves in comparison.

“Eduardo, I'm glad I finally found you,” his father says, his smile forced. “Allow me to introduce you to Howard Winklevoss and his sons, Tyler and Cameron. Howard is senior partner at Winklevoss, Swaine, & Moore.”

Even though he's pushing sixty, Howard Winklevoss is no less intimidating, with a grip that practically crushes Eduardo's hand into a pile of tiny bone shards.

“Your father says you're a Harvard man as well,” says Tyler. Or Cameron, he can't remember which, and the fact that they're both wearing tuxes doesn't help matters at all. “We were at Princeton for undergrad, but we studied law at Harvard. Graduated in '61.”

“We just missed each other then. Class of '59,” Eduardo replies. He always feels a little proud saying that. It was the one thing he'd done in life that satisfied his father. “Economics.”

Howard laughs, his big white smile full of promise. “You know, I could never survive at Harvard today. When I graduated in '34, things were much easier. Your people definitely gave my boys a run for their money while they were there. In fact, they almost got beat out for top of their class at law school by this kid named Zuckerberg.”

Eduardo's ears perk up. They had to be talking about Mark — the probability that there were two Zuckerbergs who graduated from Harvard law in the same year was close to zero. Mark must be better at his job than Eduardo thought, for Howard Winklevoss to drop his name like that.

The other twin, who hasn't spoken yet, gives a rueful grin. “So of course, we recommended that our father hire him. In order to maintain a competitive advantage, the modern law firm must seek out the best candidates.”

“When he decided to leave us, it was the worst,” says Howard, picking up the thread of the story once again. Talking to all three of them at once is a bit disconcerting. "He was getting antsy; he kept wanting to work with some of our bigger clients. Winklevoss, Swaine & Moore could care less whether or not you eat pork or celebrate Christmas, but not all of our clients are as liberal minded. Some of them are just a little more...traditional, and want to work with traditional lawyers.”

Traditional lawyers. Right. Eduardo swallows the rest of his drink. It's going to be a long night.

“No one would ever say that we don't work hard,” says Gilberto. Eduardo has always been a little disgusted at how his father just turns on the charm like that. Even worse, Eduardo has begun to do it himself. “We are, after all, the people of the book.”

“Indeed you are. And good people, too. My wife has been trying to pass off the chicken soup from one of your delis as her own for the past thirty years. But don't tell her that I know, it's better for everyone if she thinks she's got us fooled.”

Everyone laughs, long and loud and fake. Howard removes his business card from his suit pocket and tucks it in Gilberto's palm. He leans in close, like they're already good friends.

“Look, Gil — can I call you Gil? We should get together and talk business. Have your secretary call my secretary and we'll have dinner sometime, okay?” He claps Gilberto on the shoulder and leaves, Cameron and Tyler bobbing in his wake like two gargantuan ducklings.

“Ladies and Gentleman, the Winklevosses,” Eduardo mutters under his breath. Gilberto catches his words, and Eduardo holds his breath in expectation of the inevitable reprimand. But he only sighs, and Eduardo notices how old he looks when he's not consciously trying to project confidence and authority around other people. His hair has gone nearly white, and he loses a little more weight every year. The heart attack took more out of him than he's willing to admit.

“You may not like them, Eduardo. But it's better to be their friend, than their enemy.”

“They want to take Saverin's — why would you want to be their friend? Are you going to let them?”

His father scowls at him. “Of course not. Do I look like a fool? When my father opened Saverin's, it was a women's clothing store that was smaller than your bedroom. We now have holdings worth over thirty-five million, and it's all because of that store. If Winklevoss thinks I'm giving it up, then he's wasting his time.”

Gilberto looks down at his drink, and signals a waiter to come refresh his glass. Eduardo takes the opportunity to beat a hasty retreat, and nearly runs smack into the person standing behind him.

"Hey, Eduardo." Mark gives a little half wave, and takes a too-large sip of the cocktail he's carrying

"Mark, I'm sorry," he runs his hand down Mark's arm, checking to make sure nothing's broken. Not that it would make sense if anything was; they weren't going that fast. "I didn't know you'd be here."

"I didn't either. It was a last minute decision. And I almost didn't make it because I couldn't figure out this thing." He gestures to his neck.

Eduardo feels his spirits lift almost immediately. He wants to hug Mark for rescuing him from the infinite boredom that is cocktail party small-talk, but settles for adjusting the bowtie on his tux, which is listing just slightly to the left. He begins to feel self-conscious halfway through — he hasn't even greeted him properly, even though Mark doesn't seem to mind.

“Thanks,” he says, watching Eduardo's finger rapidly work at the little strip of cloth. “I'm terrible at these, and Erica was out sick today.”

“Of course, I'm happy to. But really, what are you doing here? I would have thought you'd hate this kind of thing.”

“I do. But Howard invited me, so I here I am."

Eduardo makes a sour face. "How can you still speak with that anti-Semitic bastard, after what he did to you?”

Mark shrugs, a little irritated, like he's had this conversation before. “He's better than most.”

“Hunh,” Eduardo replies, unsure of what to say. “If it works for you, I suppose.”

He bristles at Eduardo's response. “Not everyone has a high-level position at a major department store chain waiting for them upon graduation. Some of us live in reality, and reality means working with the Howard Winklevoss' of the world.”

Eduardo's smile falters. That stung more than he thought it should, although it wasn't anything he hasn't heard whispered about him before, or even that he'd thought about himself. But somehow, coming from Mark, it was worse.

Mark begins to backpedal when Eduardo takes too long to recover from his verbal jab. “I shouldn't have said that. Chris always tells me that I say things I shouldn't. But then he tells me I need to come to more of these, since big ticket clients 'aren't going to just walk in off the street'.”

“I thought Chris was against your giving in to all those evil corporate interests?”

Mark's expression goes a bit soft around the edges, his expression fond. “Chris just pretends he doesn't like money. It's like an act.”

"Oh," replies Eduardo, at a loss for anything else to say.

"Say, is your sister around?" Mark shifts gears abruptly. "Dustin says I should meet her."

"He does, does he?"

Eduardo knows where this is going--he brought Dustin home with him one summer during undergrad, and Elis had done her best to monopolize his time. Dustin's easygoing friendliness made him entirely different from her other friends, and she doted on him in the same way that a scientist would hover over an experiment. Eduardo thought that Dustin would have moved on, but apparently he was wrong.

They find Elis cozied up to Peggy Guggenheim beneath an enormous Jackson Pollock painting, buried deep in conversation. Peggy has on enormous cat eye glasses that are twice the size of her face with little rhinestones marching around the edges. She turns to Eduardo with a smile and throws her arms around his shoulders for a hug, drowning him in a cloud of lilac-scented perfume.

"Edward!" she exclaims. Elis snickers into her glass. Peggy and his mother have been friends for as long as he can remember, but she can still never get his name right. She plays the role of eccentric aunt in their family; when Eduardo and Elis were very young she'd take them out for ice cream and regale them with x-rated stories of her ill-fated affair with Samuel Beckett.

Eduardo gives her a quick peck on the cheek. "How are you, Peggy?"

Her face falls. "Terrible. I hate Manhattan, romance is dead here. You should come and visit me in Venice sometime. It's absolutely breathtaking; love springs eternal."

Eduardo allows his gaze to shift back to Mark, who is keeping his expression very carefully blank.

"Peggy, Elis, allow me to introduce you to a friend of mine from Harvard, Mark Zuckerberg."

Mark wipes his hand down the front of his tux before sticking his hand out to grab Elis'.

"I'm charmed, Mark. It's not often that Eduardo brings friends around. What do you do?"

"I head up a law firm. It's small, but it won't be that way for long."

"My, aren't we brazen," coos Peggy. "I love it." Mark scowls, and is about to open his mouth in response when Eduardo hurries to cut him off.

"He works with Dustin Moskovitz," Eduardo says. "He sends his greetings."

"You don't say." Elis blushes a little, which is a feat in itself, because she does her damnedest to never be embarrassed by anything or anyone. She quickly changes the subject. "What exactly kind of law do you practice, Mark?"

"I'm mostly interested in corporate law, but a lot of my time gets wasted on contracts and divorces."

Elis tosses a significant look at Eduardo. He groans inwardly. He should have told Mark that she was busy, because now she'll want to monopolize his attention all night in an attempt to learn everything she can about mergers and acquisitions while blitzed on vodka and soda.

Luckily, Peggy saves him by looking at her watch, which is miniaturized version of Felix the Cat. She links her arms with Elis and blows a kiss at him and Mark.

"Time for remarks, boys! I hope to see you in the crowd."

"If you leave, I will end you," hisses Elis, in total contrast to the smile plastered on her face. "And Mark, we need to have lunch sometime. Let's make it happen, okay?"

Peggy hovers, bird-like, around the sound guy as he checks over the podium where Elis will be speaking.

“I hate talking heads," sighs Eduardo. "Do you wanna cut out? I know a hotel nearby, we could get a drink at the bar, catch up some now that you're not buried in legal research.”

"What about your sister's promise of murder?"

"If a day goes by when Elis _doesn't_ threaten me, then I'll be worried."

“Good," Mark nods. "If you'd said you wanted to stay, I would have waited until your back was turned and then left anyway."

Mark's mouth makes an involuntary twitching motion. Eduardo's not totally sure, but he thinks it's supposed to be his version of a smile.

Now that they've committed to their escape, Eduardo realizes that he doesn't really remember where the hotel he's thinking of is located. He combs his brain for the location as they wind down the museum's curving interior; the vaguely dizzy feeling he has once he hits the ground floor doesn't help matters any. He's tipsy enough that he bumps into Mark every now and then, but Mark doesn't complain.

The night is that perfect balance between seasons, where the last chill of spring has burned off but the oppressive heat of a New York summer still lies around the corner. They stroll together quietly, drifting up to 90th and crossing over towards the reservoir in Central Park, with Eduardo stepping carefully so that the dust from the gravel path doesn't get on his shoes. The water shimmers in the dark, reflecting the red and white lights of the Upper West Side. Eduardo read somewhere that the Goodman kid, the one who'd been murdered down in Mississippi, had been from that part of town. He wonders what Andrew Goodman would think of him now, all dolled up in his tux and stuffed full of canapes and expensive wine.

“What are you thinking about?” asks Mark. “I'm thinking about how we might get mugged at any second.”

Eduardo sighs wearily. “Everything. Nothing. Who I would be if I wasn't me.”

His brain is a bit like mush right now. They're still standing shoulder to shoulder, two puzzle pieces that fit right up against each other, and he imagines that he can feel the heat of Mark's body through all those layers of clothing. It makes him feel good, warm and content like a lazy summer, and at the same time ashamed, even though he's done nothing wrong.

"I didn't know that keeping someone in a modern art gallery for a few hours could turn them into an existential drunk. We should experiment with this some more.”

Eduardo wishes Mark would take him seriously. “No, I mean — do you ever think that you're not doing enough? Or that the thing that you're doing is something you shouldn't be doing, and that you should drop everything and do something else?”

It takes Mark a moment to pick apart the tangle of Eduardo's words; the confusion on his face is obvious. He waits for Mark to just laugh at him and walk away.

“What is great in man is that he is a bridge and not an end,” Mark replies after a few minutes.

A little bubble of pleasant surprise rises up in Eduardo's chest. “I never thought of you as the Nietzsche type.”

“I've spent more time with Schopenhauer in recent years, but as a kid Nietzsche was my favorite. When I was eight I wrote the word “Übermensch ” in capital letters on a piece of paper and hung it on the wall above my desk.”

“I wish I had known you then,” Eduardo says softly. He stuffs his hands deeper into his pockets to keep himself from trying to touch Mark. The moonlight dulls all of his edges, makes him seem more approachable.

He wants to...he doesn't know what he wants to do. No, that's a lie. What he really wants is to back Mark right up against the balustrade and run his mouth along his jawline, around his ear. And maybe in some other places. Eduardo's face grows hot, and he's grateful for the darkness.

“We know each other now.”

Mark gives him the barest of smiles, but this time it's just big enough that his dimples start to appear. It's oddly amusing that someone as sharp and demanding as Mark is can be made to look so vulnerable just from the movement of his facial muscles.

Eduardo huffs out a laugh. “That we do, Mark. That we do.”

  


..:::.

.

  
Elis' office on the fourth floor of Saverin's is much grander than the little cubbyhole Eduardo hunkers down in at the back of the stockroom. He likes being in the thick of things, making hundreds of decisions each of which contribute to the store's success. But Elis' office matches her personality, and it's dominated by a big orange couch and a throw rug with spirals of color that make the viewer ill if stared at too long (or when drunk).

When he knocks at her door for their twice-weekly meeting, she's busy pondering a massive painting propped up against her desk. Other members of the _bon-ton_ have gambling habits or a string of mistresses, but Elis' greatest weakness was, and always had been, art. She asked for a Van Gogh for her twefth birthday, and much to Eduardo's nine-year old horror and envy, their father obliged. From that day forth, they had a monster on their hands.

“What do you think of this one?” She gestures at the canvas with her cigarette, frowning. Elis looks perfectly poised and elegant, a sculptor's most vivid dreams come to life. Today she's in a mustard-colored suit that's fairly conservative, the kind she only wears when she's meeting with the board or someone from outside of Saverin's. Eduardo wonders who it might be.

He gives her a hello kiss right where her dark bangs sweep low across her brow. She flaps her hands at him, immediately going to the mirror hanging over the fireplace to check that nothing is out of order.

“Do you know how many hours I had to spend at the salon getting my hair to look like this? Until you've suffered like I have, no touching.” She winks at herself. “And you didn't tell me what you thought of the painting yet. I got it for the wall over the fireplace. All that negative space was making me nervous. Eddie, you know the only person whose opinion I care about is yours, right?”

Eduardo doesn't get art, really. He likes music, and will take in a movie every now and then, but will never understand the all the fuss around someone slapping paint around on a canvas. This, of course, is a point of contention between him and Elis. But unlike his sister, Eduardo tries his best to get along with everyone where possible, so he'll read the arts section of the _Times_ every now and then in an attempt to show an interest in his sister's life.

It doesn't always work.

“It's Marilyn Monroe. A lot of orange Marilyn Monroes. With-” he leans in closer to the painting, “Is that a bullet hole?”

“Yes! Isn't it fabulous? It's called _Shot Marilyns_. They're by this man named Andy Warhol. A friend of his attacked the canvases in a crime of passion.” Her face falls at Eduardo's confused expression. “I had to buy one, people say he's a genius.”

“People say a lot of things, Elis.”

“Oh, come on, Eduardo. Don't be such a wet rag, tell me what you really think.”

“Pick one of the following adjectives and I'll agree with you: stupendous, genius, amazing...am I getting close?”

“Fine, we won't talk about culture, you heathen,” she slides behind her desk to pluck a portfolio off the top. “We'll talk about business. This is what I want us to sell for the summer campaign.”

She opens the file with a flourish. He closes it just as quickly and tosses it into the wastebasket next to her desk.

“No. Elis, that bathing suit does not have a top half.”

Elis retrieves the photograph, and when she straightens once again she's raring for a fight. “Eduardo, you are such a stick in the mud. Have you noticed how our sales have been faltering lately? It's 1965, not 1865, and if we keep thinking we're going to make our fortune on selling pantyhose and mixing bowls, then you are wrong. People want luxury now. They want different, and they want cutting edge. We aren't giving it to them, and we are going to regret it."

“If we sell this, we'll be arrested for indecency!”

The model in the photograph is looking coyly over one shoulder, as if there's nothing wrong at all with the fact that they upper half of her swimsuit is solely composed of two spaghetti straps running in a “V” shape between her breasts. They're just sitting out in the open air, pert nipples pointed skyward as if to say, ' _Look at me! Touch me!_ '

“It's not indecent, it's art."

Eduardo inhales deeply through his nose, trying to tamp down the tight feeling of frustration buried in the center of his chest. “I am head of merchandising, and you are head of marketing. I decide what to sell, and you decide how we sell it. Our customers are good, decent people, and we are not selling them _pornography_.”

Elis snatches the folder away from him and puts it back into her file cabinet before slamming it shut. Eduardo picks up all the papers he comes up with and heads for the door. Elise pursues him across the office and inserts herself between Eduardo and the doorknob. It's the same scenario they've played out dozens of times over the years, only this time there's millions of dollars at stake.

"You've always been such a baby, Eduardo. It's time for you to stopping letting our parents spoil you to death and grow up a little. Make your own decisions for once instead of just doing what you think Daddy wants you to do."

"Grow up? Elis, I gave up my entire future to come back here and spend my days trying to determine whether or not the notched lapel is going to make a comeback. If anyone is spoiled around here, it's you. No one has ever told you _no_ a day in your life."

"I worked for everything I have here," she flings her arms wide. "Do you think I _wanted_ to go to school 30 blocks from home? Of course I didn't, but I knew that if I wanted to have a chance at Saverin's, I needed to be in the city and make nice with Daddy's friends. You, on the other hand, just waltzed on down from school and settled into your cozy little office."

"They asked me to come back!" yells Eduardo, incensed. "He had a heart attack!"

"Yes, but the one in '59 wasn't even his first one. Did you know _that_?"

"What?" Eduardo jerks his head up in surprise.

"The first one happened during your freshman year, in November. Too much rich food at Thanksgiving, I guess."

"Why didn't anyone tell me?"

Elis picks at a stray thread dangling from her cuff. "Mother swore us all to secrecy. She didn't want anyone to interrupt your idyllic college years."

"That's not true. It can't be." He feels like someone has just snatched a rug from beneath his feet.

"Well, it is." There's a certain defensiveness in the tilt of her chin and the stiff set of her shoulders. "You were the boy, the golden child, always so sweet and eager to please, not at all like your harpy of a sister."

Eduardo doesn't know what to say. He's lived his whole life in fear of his father's disapproval, craving the easy affection that his parents always seemed to have in spades for Elis. The small gifts, the words of encouragement--it was all he ever wanted.

"But he hates everything I do, Elis. He never lets up."

"Only because he actually cares about what you do." She exhales a stream of smoke through her nose. "I could drive a car into the Hudson and he'd pat me on the head and call me a good girl. Besides, with your degree and your last name you could walk into Lord & Taylor tomorrow morning and be offered a position. But me? This is my one shot. While you were up in Cambridge playing Holden Caulfield, I was putting in twelve hour days trying to convince the board to give me a shot at Marketing Director. And now that I have it, I'm not going to let you, Daddy, or anyone else keep me from making Saverin's competitive again. So if you can't deal with that, you know what?" Elis drives a finger into Eduardo's chest, her breath coming hard and fast. "Then I don't need you."

  


..:::..

  
Eduardo is on a reconnaissance mission, and he has turned the Golden Dragon into his base of operations. He spreads a number of newspapers out on the table before him in a fan, then goes through them systematically, pulling out the department store ads in each of them. Bergdorf Goodman's, Lord & Taylor, B. Altman. The competition.

Christy appears at his elbow and nudges aside a Macy's ad in order to hand him his check. She pushes her hair behind her ear before leaning down to whisper, "I missed you the other day during my show," she said. "I thought you might be there."

He doesn't want to admit that he forgot about it entirely. "You did?"

It's about three o'clock, right between the lunch and dinner crowds, and the restaurant is completely deserted except for him. He clears a pile of paper discards from the seat next to him so that she can sit down.

"Yeah, Eduardo--you got my hopes up." She's wearing one of those inscrutable girl expressions that doesn't tell him if she's actually upset, or if she somehow finds humor in the situation. He's hoping for the latter.

"I'm sorry about that, I got...tied up in some things."

"Well, are you going to do anything about it?" she says slyly. That's when he gets it--this isn't just a conversation, this is a come-on.

Eduardo is good at some things, among them math, hailing cabs, and dressing well. He doesn't like to think about the things he's bad at, because many of them involve his current job. But the one thing he's excellent at is, well--it's girls. Anything having to do with them, especially after a childhood spent trailing in Elis' footsteps.

Step one of this game: When in doubt as to your next move, answer a question with another question.

"Should I?"

Christy says nothing, just gives a nod with her mouth closed.

"I--," he looks at the pile of ads on the table before him, which gives him an idea. Girls like shopping, and it never hurts to take an afternoon to investigate his rivals. "Would you like to take a trip uptown with me?"

Christy seems to flounder for a moment--he didn't ask the right question, it seems. But in the end she shrugs and says, "Sure. Just give me a few minutes to settle things here, okay?"

She secures her afternoon off by promising to cover for her cousin later on. Then she makes him get on the _subway_ , which he hates, so that they can ride up to Fifth Avenue. He spends the entire ride sitting as still as humanly possible, since there is a sticky-fingered toddler on his left and an old woman who has decided to use his shoulder as a pillow on his right.

"I just realized I've never seen you outside of the restaurant," Eduardo says. Christy is sitting on the seat opposite him, so he has to shout a little.

"What, did you think I'd disappear?" She crosses her arms over her smallish breasts. She's not wearing a bra, and he can see her nipples trying to point through the fabric of her white dress. Elis would never wear something so crass and tawdry, he thinks, and he likes Christy all the more because of it.

Summer has welcomed them once again with a generously humid heat wave, so by the time their ride is over a sticky pool of sweat has taken up residence in the small of his back. He wants a shower, and badly.

"That was really difficult for you, wasn't it," she comments once they've surfaced and he can breathe sort of fresh, somewhat clean air again.

"How could you tell?" he asks dryly. Christy just grins at him and links her arm in his, and they set off on their adventure.

Eduardo always liked visiting other department stores, which wouldn't seem to make much sense as he spends all his time in one. But the big stores of Manhattan are a world unto themselves, once where the perfumed scent of luxury wraps itself around your shoulders as you walk through the doors.

"Wow," Christy breathes as they set foot inside Bergdorf Goodman's. "I've never been in this place before, and now I know why."

Not a few of the clerks inside stare at them openly without even pretending to fold shirts or rearrange display cases. It's the first time he realizes that to the casual observer they are an odd coupling, an unexpected ripple in the stream of people that pass through their doors every day. He's not sure how he feels about this, so he puts his blinders on and ignores his discomfort.

The store is filled with pinched-looking housewives and young girls on summer holiday from school. Eduardo does not aim for any particular display but instead just enjoys being in proximity to so many high-end goods, the likes of which the average Saverin's customer can only hope to buy. He sighs over the heavy gold watches labeled Rolex and Movado, the thick furs, the gorgeous Italian leather shoes.

"Excuse me sir, may I be of assistance?" says a sales clerk. He watches her add up his expensive, tailored suit and Christy's off the rack dress and come to an unfavorable conclusion. Her nose wrinkles.

"We're looking for..." Eduardo falters.

"Jewelry," Christy cuts in, decisive.

The woman sniffs and leads them to a case absolutely dripping with trinkets large and small, in every precious metal and every gem you could imagine.

"See anything you like?" Eduardo asks, stepping in close to Christy. She's practically got her nose pressed to the glass.

"I feel so silly, I don't usually go for this kind of thing, you know? I'm an artist, I'm supposed to be shunning all these material goods."

"You can write an introspective piece about this great crisis in your life later on. But for now, I want to know what catches your eye."

"Are you offering?" she asks, one eyebrow raised. "Because Mr. Bergdorf and I ain't cheap."

Eduardo shrugs---why not? "Sure, pick something."

The choice she makes is not at all surprising. It's by Bulgari, a watch in the shape of a snake where each scale is a tiny separate piece of work in bright blue enamel with gold edging, overlapping one another and coiling up her arm. In its mouth sits the timepiece itself, set off by a tiny gold tongue and the snake's blue sapphire eyes.

He thinks it's a little silly, but the way she smiles when she puts it on? It makes Eduardo feel good. He likes making people happy, and in his world, it doesn't happen all that often. And so, after watch is charged and packaged and tucked into her purse, and they are standing on the street corner looking down into the yawning stairwell back into the subway, he does a very foolish thing. He places a hand on the subtle curve of her waist, puts his mouth close to the shell of her ear, and asks,--

"Do you want to go back to my place?"

Christy peers out from beneath heavily mascaraed lashes. "Five more minutes and I would have asked you myself."

Eduardo makes Christy keep on those boots that he likes so much when he eats her out in the gigantic bed that, like all the other furnishings in his apartment, was hand-picked for him by a team of designers hired especially to cater to his whims. There's a tiny birthmark on the inside of her right knee; he bites down on it harder than necessary and gets a throaty little groan in reward. He's got her right on the edge when she rolls him over and rides him to a sweaty finish, her narrow thighs sliding against his own. Eduardo closes his eyes and just lets himself get lost in the sensation. Like every woman he's slept with she's a curiosity to him, so much softer, and her smell so very, very different.

Christy uses his shower afterward, and casually drops the towel on the floor when she's finished with it. She doesn't even mention a repeat performance as she slides her cotton panties back up over her hips and wriggles into her dress again. Most of the girls Eduardo's slept with, the so called good girls from Radcliffe or Wellesley, don't do this thing where they just leave him alone afterward. He's got a store of excuses saved up about how he's too busy for dinner tomorrow or lunch next week or any time ever, thank you--but it looks like they will all be useless this time.

"So, who is he?" she asks as he zips up her boots again.

Eduardo freezes, his fingers in the middle of tracing a wandering line down her arm. "Who is who?"

"Mark." She tosses her hair over one shoulder, but it doesn't hide the disappointed tilt to her mouth. "You said his name when you came."

"I did?" He can't seem to make whole sentences at this point. Christy reaches over and ruffles his hair.

"Yeah, you did."

"My father owns Saverin's," he blurts out. "So you can't say anything--"

A shadow falls across her eyes; there's a hint of danger there he hadn't seen before. "Is that a threat?" she asks coolly.

"No, of course not." Eduardo pulls at his hair in frustration. Christy is no one, who would believe her? But it's still a risk too big to ignore. "Please don't tell anyone. If anything like that got out, it would ruin me."

She gives him a little dog pat on the head. "Don't worry, babe. Who would I tell?" She pauses thoughtfully. “But if I knew you were sitting on top of _that_ kind of money, I would have made you buy me the necklace, too."

A laugh breaks loose from Eduardo's chest. He can feel that Christy is growing on him. She's different, bright and new and not a part of his world. But no matter how much he's charmed by her, it doesn't change the fact that being with her doesn't quite scratch the itch inside him. After the initial rush of feeling and his body's physical response, he still feels empty.

  


..:::...

  
The annual Saverin family retreat up to Lake George is always Eduardo's favorite part of the summer, and even after all of these years, the sight of the towering pine trees reflected in the cobalt-blue depths of the water soothes him like nothing else. He stares out across water as the sun sets and gives a low whistle.

"Mark, If you honestly believe that spending the Fourth back in Manhattan is better than this, then I've got a bridge to sell you."

Mark frowns. "I thought your father only dealt in commercial properties. Where is this bridge, again? I think I have a client that might be interested."

It takes Eduardo a minute to realize that Mark is joking. It's always hard to tell with him, since he's not given to overt enthusiasm, or any emotion, really. Eduardo rolls his eyes and gives him a nudge with one shoulder, which causes Mark to break his facade. His coming up to join them had been suggestion from Elis, of all people. Apparently Mark had left a better impression at the Guggenheim event than Eduardo thought. He'd had Mark pegged as one of those workaholic, take-no-vacations types. But Mark was full of a hundred little surprises.

"Boys!" Elis' voice carries all the way out onto the porch. "Come here, I need you!"

Eduardo feels a pang of regret at having to share Mark with the rest of the world. He reluctantly follows Elis' voice into the parlor, where she's pushed all of the furniture out of the way and rolled up the rug. She's on her knees in her blue pedal pushers while she rifles through the old record cabinet.

"It's time for dancing," she declares, her voice muffled. "You should have brought your colleagues, Mark--they need a holiday too. Dustin, and...you know, the other one."

"There's only three of us; if we all went on vacation we'd be shooting ourselves in the foot," Mark replies.

Elis wrinkles her nose. "Learn to live a little, _querido_. What do you wanna hear?" She sways to an imaginary beat as she thumbs through the stack sitting on her lap.

Eduardo leans against the cabinet, thinking. He's still pleasantly buzzed from the multiple caprinhas he knocked back after dinner. He feels loose and easy, like he's shed some heavy part of himself by leaving the city. "Something like mom used to play. Maybe the Soares? We can teach Mark how to dance."

"What?" Mark chokes out. "I don't dance. And I don't think I can manage any physical activity without the threat of revisiting what we just ate."

Eduardo shudders at the thought of the horrible dinner they'd had not too many hours ago. The cook was experimenting with a Mexican theme, which meant bland turkey tamales and fried rice, all buried in Heinz tomato sauce. He'd promised Mark they'd drive down to into town for burgers later on, but time had gotten away from them. At least dessert was a decent consolation prize, in the form of a delightful chiffon cake piled high with strawberries and blueberries, and heavy dollops of cream.

"Eduardo, don't tease him like that." Elis is always nicer to everyone who isn't Eduardo. She plucks an album from the stack and drops it into Mark's hands. "You're our disc jockey tonight. Track number two, _s'il te plaît_ ."

Eduardo takes her hand, moving slowly at first--they haven't done this for a while. Soon they are laughing and making so much noise that he half expects his father to come down and scold them at any minute, except that Gilberto and Regina have driven down into the little village to watch the 4th of July pageant that happens every year. The jangling rhythms of the piano and the incredibly fast lyrics carry them across the floor, and Eduardo can remember when he used to watch his parents dance like this, young and in love. They had been happy here, once--before Gilberto's father had passed away and what little free time he had with his young family was lost to the push to get Saverin's into the big leagues.

When the record spins to a halt, Eduardo drops a kiss to the back of Elis' hand and bows. He wants to hold onto this moment forever. It's so rare these days that they stop antagonizing each other long enough to remember that they actually like each other.

"Oh, ugh, I am disgusting." Elis fans her face, which is red and sweaty. "I forgot that this is why I don't do this anymore." She announces a trip into the kitchen to beg the cook to make some lemonade. Eduardo drops down into an overstuffed armchair next to the one Mark has claimed for himself over in the corner.

"Where'd you learn all that?" Mark leans toward him, genuinely curious. Eduardo's eyes follow the line of his neck right down into the hollow carved between his collarbones. He swallows and looks away, afraid to get caught staring.

"Not exactly the kind of skill I'd use at Harvard, is it? My family is from Brazil. Or at least, my grandfather was, anyway. I've never been there.”

“So you all speak Portuguese?”

“My mother and my father do. I can understand some--they mostly spoke to us in English. But my mother used to dance with us when we were little.”

“You should teach me,” Mark says.

Eduardo laughs a little, disbelieving. “I thought you didn't dance?"

Mark retreats into his shell a little and sinks into the chair. "I'm supposed to go to the inauguration for whoever is the new mayor, and I'm told they won't let me stand in a corner."

Eduardo feels warm all over at that thought, like there's a small sun inside his chest. He smiles to himself and sits content for a while, soaking in the atmosphere of the creaky old house. A flash of blue at the edge of his vision catches his attention. He twists in his chair and sees the tail end of a firework fizzle and disappear against the starry sky.

"Hey, someone must be getting an early start on the evening's entertainment." Eduardo stands and heads toward the door. "Come on, let's go down to the lake and watch."

The house is set a ways back from the lake, and they half-run, half-walk, run through the scratchy grass to the water's edge. A distinctly fishy-smelling breeze kicks off the lake as the sun sinks below the horizon. The mournful calls of a group of loons echoes among the trees.

Eduardo drops to the ground just as the second firework goes off in a brilliant red that bathes the rooftops of in a wash of light for a moment. Mark isn't far behind him. He falls heavily into the grass, his breath coming in short little pants, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead.

"Out of shape, counsel?" Eduardo teases. He stretches out his legs and tucks his hands behind his head in a makeshift pillow.

Mark just glares at him, and settles next to him on the ground. He remains upright, skinny arms wrapped around his knees. Eduardo wishes Mark would lie down, so that he could see his face.  
Nevertheless, he uses the opportunity to study Mark, something that's rapidly becoming one of his favorite activities. He thinks back to that first day in the office, and the way Chris was leaning into him into a way that was almost protective before Eduardo interrupted. Certainly closer than any business colleague.

"Mark?" Eduardo stares out at a point between two distant trees, unable to look him in the eye.

"What?" Mark shifts into a reclining position, all of his weight braced on his elbows.

"That day you came to Saverin's, you said that you and Chris were--close. What did you mean by that?"

Mark's face shutters almost immediately. "Don't ask questions you already know the answer to, Wardo."

The nickname slides off his tongue as if by accident, and it's a surprise to hear--it had been Dustin's name for him, but not one Mark had ever used.

"Are you still--" he hesitates, unsure of what to say. Boyfriends? Lovers?

Mark's low voiced, "No--why do you care?" makes the blood pound in Eduardo's ears.

"What happened?"

"He's too much of an activist," Mark frowns. "Back at Harvard, he always wanted to me to go with him to meetings of one of those homophile groups--you know, like the Mattachine Society. He says I'm 'suppressing my true nature'."

It's a surprise to Eduardo--he didn't even know groups like that existed. "Would it really be that bad?" He rolls over onto his stomach and pulls at the grass, short and dry from too little rain.

"I don't care about any of that, and I don't see why I should have to. I just want to do my work, and have everyone else leave me the fuck alone." Mark makes an irritated noise in the back of his throat. "Why are we having this conversation, anyway? It doesn't matter."

Eduardo thinks of Christy. Of how interesting and funny and a little mean she was, and of the blank space in his chest and how when Mark is with him, it goes away. He shifts so that he's looking directly at Mark.

"Because I want that for us."

Mark gives a long, shaky exhale, but makes no move to look at Eduardo. Eduardo panics a little, wondering if he's got it all wrong. He uncurls the fingers of his left hand from where they've been holding onto the grass for dear life, then tentatively runs them along the strip of skin at Mark's waistline where his shirt has pulled free from his trousers. He can feel the muscles in Mark's stomach tighten, and a quick glance upward reveals that he's got his lower lip clenched between his teeth.

Eduardo is thrown off guard when Mark seizes his hand and shifts them over, pressing his thigh between Eduardo's legs. Mark feels hot all over, most especially his mouth, which is right up against Eduardo's ear.

"You don't even know what you're doing," Mark says before sucking Eduardo's earlobe into his mouth and making him squirm.

"Try me," Eduardo gasps, a little resentful that Mark thinks he hasn't done this before.

Eduardo wants to put his hands everywhere at once. He runs his fingers up and down the sides of Mark's ribcage before yanking at his belt buckle. Mark allows him about five seconds of ineffectual fumbling before knocking his hands away and making short work of it, and Eduardo's as well.

Before Eduardo can decide on his next move, Mark spits on his palm and shoves his hand into Eduardo's underwear in order to get a hand around him. All the blood in his head flows immediately south, and the gentle touches he'd been trying out before turn into a grip so tight that it surely must be causing Mark some pain.

"Mark, Mark," Eduardo groans, his voice louder than it probably should be. Elis could come out here any minute, or his parents, or the neighbors. And then what? He'd be ruined.

But Mark just hushes him and drops a kiss on his mouth, waiting for Eduardo to open up for him and then licking his way in. Mark is as decisive in this as he is in everything else, his gaze narrowed to the single point of focus that is Eduardo. He picks up the pace with his hand, switching from leisurely, teasing strokes to short fast ones that steal the breath from Eduardo's lungs and ramp up the intensity of the pressure building at the base of his spine.

Eduardo makes a noise of complaint when the kissing stops, only to be rewarded with the feel of Mark's mouth closing around him. His hips jerk upward involuntarily, and Mark coughs a little as the head of Eduardo's cock knocks against the back of his throat. When Mark slides two fingers behind his balls and begins to work him open, Eduardo is sure that he stops breathing for a minute.

"Fuck, I'm gonna--" is all he gets out before he loses it, his toes curling painfully in his shoes and sparks going off behind his eyelids brighter than anything else he's seen tonight. He can't move for a long time afterward, shaky and listless as he watches Mark roll to one side and finish himself off, strings of sticky white come shooting off into the grass. He has a decidedly smug look on his face, which Eduardo can admit is well-earned.

"Sorry, I didn't," Eduardo waves his hand in the general direction of Mark's crotch, "sorry."

Mark waves away his concern, a sleepy expression on his face. "It's fine." He winces and rubs his thumb along the hinge of his jaw, and that makes _Eduardo_ feel smug.

Eduardo can't hold back the smile that turns up the corners of his mouth. "That was amazing." They are both covered in all manner of sticky and disgusting substances, but he's happy like he hasn't been in a while. He wants to leave behind the rushed after-work encounters and to just have this, forever. He wants to sit next to Mark in Central Park with an arm around his shoulders and run his fingers through the short curls at the base of his neck.

He doesn't want to listen to the feelings of shame lurking beneath the surface of his temporary bliss, and tucks away all thoughts on how this is not the kind of behavior that his family or his God condones.

Mark's mouth softens into one of those rare smiles, and it makes Eduardo feel tingly-good and content all over. He wants a repeat performance of this, but with less clothing. Eduardo has no idea what this all means in the grand scheme of things, or even what he'll do when he wakes up tomorrow morning. But he does know that Mark's slightly reddened mouth looks more tempting than ever, and that he would like to kiss him once more, or maybe a thousand times.

  


..:::... 

  
"Mr. Saverin?" Sal's gruff voice cuts in on Eduardo's thoughts. Most of which revolve around Mark, Christy, and various permutations thereof.

"Oh--yes?" Eduardo looks up from the financials before them. It's their monthly executive staff meeting, which means all departments are present. Sales are down again this quarter, so the people sitting around the table all exist in various shades of irritated. Although Eduardo would like to note that they did get rid of all the beach balls from last summer.

In truth, he'd rather just think about seeing Mark again. It's been over a month since their trip upstate, and beyond the occasional phone call, they've not had any contact. Their schedules are both packed to the breaking point, but as the days pass by, Eduardo begins to doubt himself. Maybe what they did wasn't right. Maybe Mark thinks it was a mistake, too.

"I don't think I can get anyone to go lower than what we asked for last year on those suits. Besides, Macy's is offering them a better price, so we have to move now or we won't have any stock at all."

"Goddamn Macy's," grumbles Falk, who just came in as their new head of accounting and is only a few years older than Eduardo. Elis found him somewhere, the husband of a friend or something. Eduardo's not sure.

He nods and tries to think of how he can make up the loss somewhere else. Jockey has a new line of briefs, maybe he can get them to come down on their price if he promises them a special promotion next month.

They chew over the topic a bit more until they reach a stalemate, at which point his father clears his throat quietly and a hush falls over the room. Gilberto's position at the head of the table lends him some of the authority robbed by his declining health. He's been letting his power slip over the past few years, according more and more responsibility to his department heads and only remaining directly involved in high level decisions--the opening of stores, the loosening of their policies regarding store credit. So it was a surprise to everyone when he showed up at the meeting this morning.

"Gentlemen," he begins, "and my Elis, I would like to inform you that Federated Department Stores, the parent company of Macy's, has contacted me informally to discuss the acquisition of Saverin's into their network of retail stores."

Eduardo scans the faces of the other men in the room to see who's already picked up word of this through various informal channels. Most of them remain composed, but a few of them cast darting glances across the room. The nebbishy fellow from the credit services department looks entirely shocked.

"And what did you say to them?" Elis probes.

"I told them, in no uncertain conditions, that Saverin's is not for sale. We may be suffering from some hard times at the moment, but my father did not struggle as he did to bring this store to prominence only to see it cast into the hands of a national conglomerate. This is a family brand, and will remain as such."

"Gil, did you even think about it?" asks the chief of operations, a white haired man named Horsham who was a friend of Gilberto's from business school. "These corporate reorganizations aren't all bad, and think of the reach we could have if we were an arm of a store big as Macy's. It's at least worth considering."

"Peter's got a point--we're not the only ones struggling, here. Look at Ohrbach's--they took an offer a few months ago and they seem to be doing fine," says Falk.

"That's a lie and you know it," Eduardo interjects. The seeming groundswell of support for a potential buyout is disturbing. From the look of surprise in his eyes, his father didn't expect this, either. "Ohrbach's fired half their staff!"

"They unloaded some dead weight," Elis says with an elegant shrug. "What's the big deal about that?"

"I appreciate your thought on this matter," Gilberto says, although his tone indicates the opposite, "but my feelings in this are final. Should Federated make a formal bid, this will of course be subject to the approval of the board. In the meantime, I expect the utmost discretion in this matter." He turns to the secretary recording the proceedings. "Anna, is there anything else on the agenda for this morning?"

"No sir, I believe that is all."

"Good. Then you all are dismissed."

Eduardo takes his time gathering up all of his papers and things, turning this new development over in his mind. The idea of just being swallowed up like that doesn't sit well with him. There are good people at work here, and there's no doubt that a behemoth like Federated would never understand that.

Not that he has anything to worry about, because between his father, Elis, and himself, they'll never secure enough votes to sell the company. After a few minutes, he realizes that he and his father are the only ones left in the room--Gil Saverin may have a good head for business, but there are few people in the store who hang around for the sole enjoyment of his company. Eduardo tosses off a casual salute and heads for the door, but his father calls after him.

"Eduardo, I need to speak with you."

"Yeah?"

What little energy his father has managed to hold on to has already disappeared completely. He beckons Eduardo toward him.

"I'm ashamed of myself for putting off this discussion so long. But as you can see, I have many enemies in the community. People who would want to take advantage of me, especially with my health not being what it used to be."

Eduardo doesn't know what he's getting at. "I'm here for you--anything you need, just tell me. I came back from Boston because I wanted to support Saverin's in any way I could."

"It's not enough, Eduardo." His father's mouth hardens into a frown. "For some time now, I've thought that you're not putting the full weight of your intelligence into your work here. Elis notices it, even Sal has started to come to me with his concerns."

His father's eyes hold that all too familiar disappointed look, but Eduardo doesn't know what could have caused it. "At first I brushed it off. Everyone has their off days." He hesitates. "But then your mother told me about what happened at Lake George. She saw you, that night. With another man."

All of the blood drains from Eduardo's face. He's not quite sure his knees can still hold him up anymore, so he sinks slowly into the nearest chair. He knows. About Mark. About everything.

"Dad, I swear--" but he didn't know how to finish that sentence in any way that wouldn't be a lie.

"I can't believe you would do that, in our home, out in the open like some _animal_. Did you even think about what you were doing?" he hisses. It's like being twelve all over again, with his father towering over him, face red with anger. He pulls out his handkerchief to mop his face. "Look at me, I'm getting upset. And what for? I have a business to run, Eduardo. Three stores, 753 employees, millions of dollars in merchandise. I do not have time to worry about my own son being a deviant. What next, do I have to keep you out of the women's department?"

Eduardo's resolve crumbles. He was an idiot. How did he think that he wouldn't get caught? And the effect this kind of stress would have on his father's already fragile health, not to mention his mother-- "I'm sorry, I made a mistake, I don't know, I must have drank too much. It won't happen again, I'm sorry."

"I know you are. You're a good son, Eduardo, you just get so easily distracted." Gilberto slides a small white pamphlet from beneath the legal pad he'd been taking notes on. It's folded neatly into thirds, the creases worn like it's already been read over and over again. "Your mother and I want you to get help."

The crisp black lettering on the pamphlet screams up at him.: _A Way To Escape: The Path to Healing Homosexuality_.

He runs his thumb against the edge of the paper. "What is this?"

"Contact information for a doctor I've consulted on your behalf. Don't worry, Dr. Meis is discreet. No one has to know that you're a patient of his. He's had great success in treating those who come to him. His patients have gone on to be very successful men with wives, children..."

Eduardo nods and clears his throat. It does nothing for the rock that's lodged there. He laughs a little, but it's awkward, forced. "This is really unnecessary, don't you think?"

"I'm afraid you don't understand." He takes Eduardo's face in his hands, and kisses him on the forehead with papery, dry lips. The smell of tobacco tells Eduardo how badly he's taking this--he hasn't touched a cigarette in years. "Your mother and I are willing to support you in every way we can. But until you're over this, I'm removing you from your position at Saverin's. Take a few months off, maybe return in the new year when you're feeling more settled. You're still expected at shareholder's meetings, but you'll be taking leave of your formal role, effective immediately."

It hurts to breathe all of a sudden, like his lungs have given up on him and gone on holiday. He remembers his argument with Elis the other day. If this is the way his father shows that he cares, then Eduardo wants none of it.

"What? Dad, you can't--"

"I'm sorry, Eduardo. Saverin's needs to present a wholesome, family-focused image to the public. I'm not sure you can do that right now."

"What do I tell people?" he whispers.

"Don't worry, we'll think of something. Perhaps you're going back to a school for a while. We wouldn't want this to get out, after all."

"Yes, of course," Eduardo murmurs, only half-paying attention at this point. He's entirely numb--what is he supposed to do? Are they cutting him off? Where will he go?

"That's a good boy," says Gil. "I knew you'd see it my way."

  


..:::..

Eduardo turns up the volume on the television and then races back to bury himself deeper beneath the throw he's claimed for himself on Christy's couch. She refuses to keep the thermostat set higher than 65, and as it's February, Eduardo is freezing to death. He supposes he could go back to the sad and empty monstrosity on 82nd that he mostly uses as a place to store his clothes, but he likes it here. It's cozy and cluttered with the odds and ends she collects for her art--beads, machine parts, there's even a bird's nest sitting on the coffee table. He doesn't have to do anything here, and nobody will judge him. Least of all Christy's friends, who are all out doing the free-spirit thing, spending their days bartending and publishing bad poetry in _The Village Voice_. He's learned that telling people in Christy's set that he's "finding himself" will earn him a fond smile where he's used to it resulting in a raised eyebrow and a frown.

A key jangles in the lock, and the door crashes open, spilling Christy over the threshold. She's got a box in her arms that's overflowing with more 'pieces of inspiration', as she calls them.

"You haven't moved from that couch all day, have you." Her tone is a little judgmental, and that irritates Eduardo. She said he could stay here, if she wants him to go somewhere else she should just say so.

"No," he answers, his voice muffled by the blanket. It's an old ratty piece of work, knobbly from hundreds of washings with a cigarette hole burned into the corner. But it's Eduardo's favorite thing in the whole place.

Christy leans down over the back of the couch and musses his hair. She carries the smells of turpentine and sawdust with her from the studio space she shares with some friends. "I thought you were going to go out and look for a job today."

Eduardo scowls. "What do I need a job for?"

"Because there are more interesting things in life than watching _Peyton Place_ three times a week, that's why." She gestures at the television screen, where Mia Farrow is busy looking pouty and sad while wearing the hell out of a fitted sweater. "You ran a fucking department store straight out of college, Eduardo, I know you can do better than this."

"I went to my therapist today," Eduardo says, his voice tired. He's been going for the past few months, because maybe...maybe his father is right. Maybe he _is_ sick, and it manifested in his declining productivity, his lack of interest in work.

"What'd he say?"

"That I need to learn to, 'control my ego strengths in order to keep my fantasies from emerging into my conscious reality'," he parrots, mimicking Dr. Meis' high, reedy tones.

"Yeah, that means nothing to me. Have you talked to Mark at all?"

"No. I'm not talking to anyone from my past life."

Christy rolls her eyes at Eduardo's melodramatic statement, because Eduardo is lying--Elis stops by at least once every few weeks to make sure he's still breathing. She always refuses to sit down on anything, and complains about Eduardo's continual desire to play at 'slumming it'. She did purchase one of Christy's pieces though, and in celebration Eduardo and Christy went out and bought a bottle of Chateau Haut-Brion '60 and a some really good weed and got drunk and high out of their minds. Eduardo fucked Christy up against the wall of her bedroom that night. They didn't even bother to take off her skirt. He hated himself afterward, and he hated Christy, too, for being complicit in it everything. For not caring how fucked up that was. How fucked up _he_ is.

"Christy, we should get married."

"Sorry Charlie," Christy says automatically. He asks her every time he gets back from his visits with Dr. Meis, and every time she says no. It's like a little game between them. A part of him is always relieved when she shoots him down, but it's swallowed by the bigger thing inside of him, this black knot of fear that seized him from the moment his father handed him that pamphlet. It's been years since he had sex with a woman other than Christy, and that doesn't bode well for his getting better. According to Dr. Meis, the first step on the path to a normal, healthy sexual life is to find a wife.

"God," he groans into the throw pillow. "What is wrong with me?"

"Aw, baby," Christy makes space for her feet in between his legs, and he flinches when he feels how cold they are, like little blocks of ice. "What about school, you talk about that a lot. Maybe you should go back, find your calling."

"I thought about it," he admits. "You know, I was going to go to law school too, once."

"Then promise me you'll go visit at least one admissions office this week. I'm tired of counseling you, I have my own life to live."

Eduardo runs his thumb up and down her ankle. "Yeah, yeah. You like it, I'm your own personal project."

Christy rolls her eyes. "Okay, pep talk over, it's TV time. Tell me who the good Dr. Rossi is sleeping with this week?"

"No one, yet, but Allison just broke up with her boyfriend because he said she was frigid." Christy steals some of the blanket away for herself. It's nice, just to be next to another person like this, to take comfort in their warmth.

"Didn't that happen last season too?"

"Yep. And yet for some reason, I just keep watching."

  


..:::..

  
"I'm overdressed, I can feel it," Eduardo complains, looking at himself in Christy's narrow mirror. You can't see much of yourself in it, anyway, since she's covered the surface in cryptic phrases and splotches of paint.

She grimaces at the wool coat he's wearing. "You don't own anything more...cool?"

"Where I come from, this is cool."

"Oh well, you look cute." Eduardo's face falls. He can't remember why he thought it was a good idea to show up at one of Christy's art party things in the first place. "No, no, cute is good! Guys like cute!"

"I'm not doing that anymore," Eduardo says, holding his voice steady. He doesn't mention the day he wandered into that bar on Christopher Street last week and had a few drinks. Let people look at him, touch him, and when he felt relaxed enough, maybe take him around back for a bit. That doesn't count anyway; he was just blowing off steam. He's trying to get better. He's not like them.

"Whatever you say, Wardo." She unwinds the scarf he's wearing from his neck. "But you have to lose this, it makes you look fifty."

A kind of disgusting rainy slushy mix pelts them as they huddle beneath Christy's giant umbrella during the short walk to the party. Eduardo feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, like someone is following them.

"Stop being so twitchy," Christy admonishes, huddling close to the warmth of his coat. She's wildly underdressed for this time of year; he can hear her teeth chattering.

"I'm not twitchy, I'm just trying to make sure that we make it to this place alive."

"Rich boy," Christy mutters under her breath. Eduardo chooses to pretend like he didn't hear that, since he is the bigger man, after all.

They stop at an abandoned low-rise that looks like all of the other abandoned buildings on the block, save for the noise and flashes of colorful light that escape from the windows. He scrambles to push the door open for her before she has to touch anything; nothing can convince Eduardo that its rusting locks aren't covered in some kind of disease.

The room is crowded and dim, with the entire place shrouded in a haze of sweet smelling smoke.

"Sean!" Christy squeals, and runs off to throw her arms around the neck of a guy in an olive drab turtleneck and sunglasses with a joint in one hand and a beer in the other. He catches Christy around the waist and spins her in a circle.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite flower of the Orient," he says, and kisses her full on the mouth.

Christy makes a face and hits him in the arm. "Fuck off, Sean."

Eduardo hates this smug bastard already. Besides, only a douchebag wears sunglasses inside at night.

"Here, let me introduce you to someone," she says, grabbing Eduardo from his current place standing awkwardly to one side of them, his arms full of too much wool coat. "Sean, this is Eduardo. He's crashing at my place for a bit."

"So, Eduardo," Sean says, and offers his hand. His grip is unimpressive; his palm slides against Eduardo's with all the strength of a wet noodle. "What do you do?"

"I'm in retail," he answers automatically, then winces. "Was, I mean, I was."

"Christy, you've brought a capitalist into our midst," Sean chides. "I thought we talked about this."

"Sean, play nice." Eduardo scowls. Why is she flirting with this guy?

"I am playing nice; it's him who wants to destroy the fabric of our society through the destruction of the environment and the abolition of the middle class."

Five minutes in and Eduardo has already had enough. "Christy, I didn't come here to stand around and be insulted by some hack who's bitter because his last article got rejected by _Art Forum_. I'm leaving."

"Wardo, don't. Please? Stay for me? I know Sean can be obnoxious, but he means well." She clings to his arm, her face fixed into a pout. "Besides, I want you to meet my other friends."

Eduardo acquiesces and follows her through the rest of the house, poking their heads into each room to see if they can find anyone they know. In one, there are two men sawing a log in half while a video loop of the atomic bomb plays in the background. The bathroom contains a woman wearing an oversized bra into which she's stuffed some kind of melon; every now and then she'd stop the conversation she was in to scoop some out with a grapefruit spoon and feed it to some unsuspecting passerby.

"Isn't it great?” Christy says as she wipes a bit of melon juice from her chin. "She's making a comment on how women's bodies are seen as disposable."

"Ah." Eduardo just shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. "Right."

They make it to the third floor before Christy finds the person she's looking for; and steers them toward a big window that's been cracked open to let out some of all the body heat that's being generated. The slim, blonde fellow she's steering them towards looks vaguely familiar, although Eduardo can't quite make out who he is since he's turned away from them and there's no light save for one bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Christy rises onto her toes and waves.

"Chris!" she yells.

Eduardo's stomach plummets to the floor when Hughes turns around to greet them. Of course. He's engaged in drunken, baseless speculation about Chris and Mark's relationship in Christy's vicinity before, and his Chris' phone number is the address book in the Eduardo leaves lying around her apartment all the time.

"Tell me that Mark's not here, Christy. Tell me that you two didn't set this all up."

She widens her eyes and tries to look innocent. "But that would be lying."

He pinches the bridge of his nose, exasperated. "Dammit, Christy--why couldn't you just leave well enough alone? I said I didn't want to see him again, and you blatantly ignore me and--"

There's a dull pain in his shoulder when someone punches him in the arm. He turns to confront the perpetrator, only to see that it's Mark.

"Hey, Wardo."

"Mark," he breathes. It's been ages since Eduardo saw him last. "Hey."

Objectively, Mark isn't handsome. He doesn't have the tall, thin look of most people here; he's not a model. His sweater is made of a lumpy grey wool in a cut better suited to someone twice his age. There are bags beneath his eyes, and he's about two weeks past due for a haircut.

Eduardo has to ball his hands into fists to keep from touching him. From the corner of his eye, he can see Christy shooing Chris towards the other end of the room, leaving the two of them alone. Which is something Eduardo really does not need.

"I thought you weren't into the art thing," Eduardo says, fumbling for somewhere to begin.

"I'm not, but Chris is. It's also really easy for him to pick up guys here."

"Is that what you're here to do? Find an easy lay?" He knows he sounds bitter, but it's not enough to keep him from saying it.

The way Mark stares at him makes Eduardo feel naked, and not in the good way. "I heard about what your father did. He's a jackass, you should ignore him. He's the past, _we're_ the future. You don't need him."

"I don't _need_ him?" He nearly chokes on the words. "Mark, he's my father. If he cuts me out of the company, I've got nothing. I almost ruined myself, being with you. "

"So come work for me. Chris is taking off for San Francisco soon to work for some pro bono civil rights group and he's taking Erica with him. You can answer my phones while I look for his replacement." Mark closes in on Eduardo's personal space, and his heart rate rises in inverse proportion to the amount of distance between them.

"And this is appealing to me why?" He's annoyed at the way Mark has just mapped out his entire life for him without asking. It's the same kind of thing his father does.

"Because," Mark says, "then you can have this."

Mark yanks Eduardo forward, all strength and no finesse. His mouth is chapped, and tastes a little of smoke and cheap alcohol. He bites Eduardo's bottom lip and it suddenly becomes harder to breathe. Eduardo's hands go automatically to Mark's waist, which Mark takes as permission to press Eduardo up against the wall and curl his fingers beneath the hem of his sweater, never breaking the kiss the entire time.

Eduardo sighs softly in defeat as he hooks his fingers through Mark's belt loops and drags him in closer to relieve the growing pressure of his sudden hard-on. He's been jerking off once or twice a day now, but it's nothing compared to this.

"There's a room down the hall," Mark says into his ear. Eduardo just nods, already too dizzy with anticipation to say anything else. Mark doesn't let go of his hand as he drags Eduardo around a corner into a little room, glaring at its occupants until they all scatter. It's in severe disrepair, with peeling paint and a jagged hole in one corner of the floor. Mark slams the door shut and unzips his trousers, pulls them down to mid-thigh. His half-hard cock is a dark purplish-red against the pale skin of his thighs.

"I want you to fuck me."

Eduardo swears and exhales shakily. He's done everything else but this part, before. He shoves the heels of his hands into his eyes and tries to focus for a moment over the noise of the party and the roar of blood in his ears. He should say no. He really should. He should turn around and go home and forget about all of this. Instead, he takes a step forward.

In what is probably the first and last display of patience in his life, Mark braces himself against the door and closes his eyes, breathing shallowly through his nose. Eduardo nuzzles the back of his neck, breathing in the smell of sweat and old cologne. Mark shivers. Eduardo jerks open his fly, spits on his palm. The few lazy strokes he gives himself aren't really all that necessary, because he's already harder than he's ever been.

A part of him is amazed at the way that Mark just trusts him to do this right and not fuck it up. He's seen movies, alone, but all of his knowledge is theoretical and he's worried about the one thousand ways this could go wrong. He takes a deep breath, lines his cock up and pushes forward, but gets nowhere.

"I'm sorry, I don't know--" He has never been so embarrassed in his life. This part was always so easy, with women. His own body doesn't even want it. Maybe this is a mistake after all.

Mark laughs a little, and Eduardo feels his embarrassment beginning to curdle and turn into anger until Mark's fingers come up to rest gently on his hip.

"Slow down. And more spit is always good."

The corners of his mouth turn upward as whatever negative emotions building in the pit of his stomach fade away. He slides one hand up beneath the front of Mark's sweater to pinch one of his broad, flat nipples, and with the other, he pushes two fingers into Mark's mouth.

"Suck," he commands, and is instantly gratified by the wet seal of Mark's mouth clamping down on him.

The second try is better, with Mark's breath hitching a little as Eduardo slides in, inch by tortuous inch. It's tighter and hotter than anything he ever imagined, and he has to pause for a second once he's all the way there and mentally page through the inventory of punch bowls in the basement at Saverin's so this isn't all over in thirty seconds. He gets one hand around Mark's waist for leverage before he starts rolling his hips in slow, careful strokes that have Mark digging his fingers into Eduardo's hip hard enough to bruise.

"Come on," Mark says, his voice steady. "I've got you."

  
 _..::::.._

  
Eduardo never thought he'd see the day when his father's secretary had to escort him back to the boardroom at Saverin's. He wants to muster up the energy to be insulted, but mostly he feels tired. And horny. He's been spending a lot of time at Mark's place, leaning over his shoulder while Mark scribbles notes for whatever case he's working in the small circle of light from the bedside lamp. Sometimes there's a small inkstain on his bottom lip from chewing on his pen; Eduardo likes to press him back into the sheets and lick at his mouth until it disappears. He feels happy, at ease, and a little jealous--being around Mark throws Eduardo's own inadequacies into sharp relief.

He is the last one to enter the room, and everyone else's eyes are heavy on him. They've all been fed the story that he was going back to school, but he knows they suspect something.

"Eduardo, good." Elis waves to the secretary and has her pass around a set of papers to everyone settled around the table. "We can get started now."

He quickly scans the page, sees the words "Notice of Exempt Solicitation" in bold across the top. He tries to think on why he hasn't seen this before, and realizes that he can't remember the last time he'd been home to check his mail. He flips through all of the paperwork and finds Elis' signature and that of the board chair at the end, her name signed with a flourish. And below that, in the small print, a line advising them to contact Zuckerberg, Moskovitz, & Hughes, LLP for information regarding proposal specific information.

Eduardo feels ill all of a sudden.

The board chair, an imposing figureby the name of Ben Auerbach, raps his miniature gavel and calls the meeting to order. Eduardo often wonders how Auerbach manages to keep his position on the board when outside of their annual meeting, Eduardo sees neither hide nor hair of him.

"I would like to welcome you all to this annual meeting of the shareholders of Saverin Holdings, Ltd, on this the sixteenth of April, 1966. As you all know, our CEO, Gilberto Saverin, is standing for re-election this morning. In the months prior, we have submitted to you, the shareholders, a notice of exempt solicitation notifying you of the intention of myself and Ms. Saverin, Director of Marketing, to withhold support from Mr. Saverin by voting against him in his re-election as Chief Executive Officer of this company. Ms. Saverin, please continue with our reasons for the submission of this exemption."

Eduardo's eyes flick over to his father, whose face is white as a sheet. He doesn't want to believe it, either. But the evidence is sitting right here in front of them. His entire relationship with Mark was a sham. A clever ruse designed to distract him while Elis found a way to force their father out of the company. Eduardo's grip on his pen tightens to the point where the pocket clip bites into his skin.

"Over the past fiscal year," Elis begins, "sales at Saverin's Fine Goods have declined by more than seven percent. On May 15, 1965, we received a notice from Federated Department Stores of their interest in purchasing both locations of Saverin's Fine Goods, which was summarily declined. We stand firm in our belief that this was a reckless maneuver displaying limited due diligence on behalf of the CEO, Gilberto Saverin. In addition, Mr. Saverin has repeatedly refused to make changes in marketing and sales strategy despite numerous suggestions for improvement submitted by his executive staff." She clears her throat, but never removes her eyes from the paper.

"As a result of these events surrounding the bid from Federated Department Stores, and what we believe to be a total disregard for protecting the interests of shareholders demonstrated by the CEO, Chairman Auerbach and I decided to take legal action, entirely at our cost."

"What the hell, Elis? A takeover?" Eduard stands up, sending his chair skidding backward. "Why wasn't I told any of this? And you were working with _Mark_?"

"Maybe you should check your mail sometime," she replies, her mouth tight.

It all makes sense now--Mark's presence at the gallery opening, his surprise invitation to Lake George. This had been going on right under his nose for months. Mark had sent Eduardo off to bed that night with a furtive kiss up against the wall outside of his room. And while Eduardo was asleep, he snuck off to plot with Elis. He remembers all those hints Elis had dropped in conversation about change--how could he have been so blind?

"Eduardo, sit down." Gilberto waves him back into his seat. There are bags beneath his eyes, and his shirt is rumpled, like he slept in it. "This is no time for your theatrics. This is a business meeting."

Eduardo slides back into seat again, his face hot with embarrassment, but no less upset. He's known most of these people since he was small enough to fit beneath his father's desk. And now they're all betraying him.

Auerbach clears his throat. "If we are ready to proceed, I move to take a vote for those in favor of re-electing Gilberto Saverin to the position of CEO of Saverin's Fine Goods."

Falk clears his throat, his expression defiant. "Motion approved," he says, looking directly at Gilberto.

Sal raises his hand at the other end of the table. "Seconded."

Sal, too? Eduardo shakes his head. While he wasn't looking, someone stepped in and swapped out his life with the script of a Greek tragedy.

"I'm sorry, Eduardo." Sal says. "I just wanted to keep my job."

"I can't believe you, Elis. This is our father."

A flash of guilt crosses her expression for a moment before she closes herself off again. She squares her shoulders and sits up a little straighter in her chair.

"He wasn't doing his job anymore, and as everyone else was happy to go down with the ship, I took the necessary action of securing the future of this company."

Their father doesn't react to this at all; his thoughts are entirely hidden behind the brick facade he's putting up for them.

"I trust that the entertainment portion of the evening is over, then? All opposed?" Elis asks.

The silence is deafening as a chorus of hands goes up around the table.

"All in favor?"

Eduardo's hand, and that of an ancient creature who has been on the board since his grandfather's time, are the only ones to go up in the room.

Eduardo doesn't stay for the rest of the meeting. He just pushes his chair away from the table, and walks out.

  
.

..:::..

  
A pretty, dark-haired girl with sharp cheekbones greets Eduardo when he storms into Mark's offices. "I need to speak to Mark," he snaps.

I'm sorry, Mr.--"

"Saverin. Eduardo."

"Oh, Mr. Saverin, of course. He's currently in a meeting with a client. But if you'd like to, come back in a few hours, he has about twenty minutes at around one p.m. where I think I can squeeze you-”

"Don't worry about it, Rachel," Dustin says as he emerges from his office. His shirtsleeves are rolled up to the elbow and he looks a little tired, but other than that he looks good, healthy. "I'll take care of this."

"Of course, Mr. Moskovitz."

Eduardo refuses the drink he's offered once he's in the office that Dustin and Chris presumably shared until his departure. The second desk is still unoccupied, although Dustin's papers are starting to encroach upon the empty space.

"Why, the hell would you--why?" Eduardo's fingers curl into fists at his sides.

"It wasn't supposed to be personal," Dustin insists.

"How could it not be?"

"Look, Elis only wants what is best for the company. Your father was no longer the right man for the job. It was time for new talent, and Elis was prepared to make that happen. I'm sure that she'll give you your position back once she transitions into her role of CEO."

Eduardo isn't swayed by Dustin's impassioned defense of Elis' actions. Of course he feels that way, he just wants to fuck her. How typical, for her to have them all wrapped around her finger like that.

"I don't know why I'm talking to you anyway, Dustin. It's not like you didn’t know this was going to happen."

Dustin gives him a pained look. "Look, I want you to know that--they care about you, they really do. And they care about Saverin's. I mean, Mark, he talks about you constantly. He'll never say so, but you make him happy."

Eduardo shakes his head. He doesn't have to listen to this.

"Get out of my face, Dustin."

"Don't blame him, Eduardo." He turns to find Mark standing behind him in the doorway. He looks good, dressed in a newer, better suit, one that Eduardo strongly suspects that Elis had something to do with. "He was against our getting involved from the beginning."

Dustin shifts uncomfortably, then checks his watch. "I'm meeting Elis for lunch, I'll catch you two later."

"Since when do you two have lunch?" Eduardo asks. He wonders what else Elis has been keeping from him.

"Well, you know..." Dustin tries and fails to come up with an answer, his face a dull pink. He beats a hasty retreat, shutting the door softly behind him.

"Why didn't you tell me, Mark?"

"Elis didn't want me to. She knew you wouldn't go along with it," he says, his voice taking on an accusatory tone. Was she wrong?"

"Of course I wouldn't have! Tell me something. That night--at the lake--did you come up to work on the case?"

Mark opens his mouth, shuts it again. "It was difficult for Elis to keep coming up to the office without rousing suspicion."

Eduardo rubs a hand across the back of his neck. "I knew it. This whole time, you were just using me."

"That had nothing to do with us, Eduardo." Mark is unnaturally stiff, an automaton in human clothing. "Maybe you're upset, but everything is done now. So let's just move on from this, please."

Eduardo can't believe Mark. Where does he get off saying things like that? It's difficult not to give in to the urge to plant a fist in Mark's face. Eduardo trusted him, made himself vulnerable in a way that ended up destroying his career. Back at Harvard, Mark's naked ambition was something Eduardo had found intriguing, maybe a little enviable. But now it just disgusts him.

"I don't think I can forgive you for this, Mark. I thought you came up to spend time with me that weekend, but really it just made it easier for you to stab me in the back."

"I did come up to spend time with you! And...I came to work on the case. It was efficient."

"Oh, I'm glad that you were able to include fucking me in your billable hours," Eduardo sneers. "Anything to contribute to your ongoing financial success, Mark."

"Don't you think your loyalty is a little misplaced, here?" Mark shoots back. "Your father fired you. He fired you and you haven't spoken to him in _months_. I bet he sent you to one of those doctors so you could learn how to like fucking women again, didn't he? And now you're defending this guy?"

Eduardo pales. He never knew Mark had paid such close attention to him. He wonders how much of this information he got from Elis, and how much from other sources.

"You don't get to ask me that. What happened between my father and I is personal."

"And when it has to do with me and you? Is it personal then?"

"That's where you're wrong, Mark," says Eduardo, shaking his head. "There is no you and me. Not anymore."

  


..::::..

  
The telltale _pop_ of a champagne cork is the only warning Eduardo receives before the back of his neck is sprayed with cold liquid. He's torn between being grateful for the temporary relief from a brutal summer day, and dwelling on how much of a nuisance it will be to get his shirt dry cleaned. Not to mention the sorry state of the box he's packing his things into, which is now wet enough that he probably needs to switch it out for another.

"Christy, what are you doing?"

"Champagne toast, of course." She pulls two glasses (wine glasses, of course) from nowhere and begins to pour a too-full glass of bubbly. There's paint on her nose, and behind her ear, and really, just everywhere. She's met this girl, Alice, who is a musician; they spend all their time coming up with weird creations with names like "TV Cello" and other things that make very little sense, but generate a lot of enthusiasm among their friends. He's happy for her--she's spent way too much time picking up after him.

He grimaces at the name on the label. "You can't honestly expect me to drink this."

"And you can't honestly expect me to take you seriously. I recall multiple occasions where I let you go without bathing for multiple days while you moped, you owe me."

"I wasn't moping, I was...thinking."

She presents him with a wet glass, then goes to turn the radio on before starting in on her own. The Temptations' 'Get Ready' pours out of the speakers, and Eduardo smiles even though the song has been crowding the airwaves all month. "Besides, getting into law school and returning to your own place of residence is most certainly an occasion for celebration, don't you think?"

Eduardo ducks his head and grins. He knew the moment that he set up an appointment with the Dean of Admissions at Columbia Law that he was doing the right thing. Luckily for him, they didn't start pulling from recent classes of undergrads until late summer, giving him just enough time to squeak through the application process. He missed school, with its late nights and long papers, the constant and passionate exchange of ideas. But at the same time, he was going to miss Christy's constant presence more than he could say.

"What are you going to do without me?" he asks.

"My life will be _tres bonne_ , and I can have all the sex I want with people who aren't you, and watch TV with people who aren't you, and stay up until 3 a.m. working on my art without having to worry about waking you up..."

"Okay, okay, I get it," He raises his glass. "I propose a toast."

"To what?"

"I don't know," he frowns. "It just seemed like a toasting moment. But I was always bad at making them."

She chews over the thought in her mind for a few seconds before lifting her glass in the air. "To Eduardo. May he find a hot lawyer at Columbia to shack up with."

They clink glasses and Eduardo proceeds cautiously with his first sip, only to grimace at the slight bitterness he detects. He wonders how people actually drink a liquid that tastes like this. Maybe there's some orange juice in the refrigerator that he can take advantage of.

"Remind me to get you a bottle of Gosset next time. This can't be good for your health."

"Are you sneering at my alcohol? After you slept on my couch for four months?"

"It's a nice couch!"

Eduardo grins and kisses her on the cheek, then stretches his arms over his head in an attempt to work out the kinks in his shoulders. He's amassed a truly appalling amount of possessions in the few months he's been here with her, none of which she's willing to keep for him. His eyes fall on the clock--it's already nearing six p.m.

"I still can't believe that after everything, you ended up enrolling in _law school_." Christy muses.

"I like it. Maybe I'll do pro-bono work, help other people. Go out to California and see Chris. I don't know yet. But this is the first step, and I feel good about this, you know? It feels right."

She knocks her shoulder into his. The setting sun filters in through the window and catches in her hair, touching off blue-black highlights. Eduardo twirls a strand around his finger and hums thoughtfully. He stopped going to Dr. Meis in April, but there are little times like this, when he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he should try harder to be normal.

"I don't think I appreciate you enough, you know that?"

Her laugh is loud and clear, like the church bells that they can hear down the block every morning. "Why, thank you. You're not so bad yourself."

  


..:::..

  
Eduardo loves tax law.

That's a lie. Tax law is a unique form of torture that no one should ever have to deal with, although he admits that it has made him consider moving more of his investments overseas.

But what he really likes about his tax law lecture is this boy, Divya, who is the star pupil. He grew up in London and is living in New York by himself while he's in law school, giving him a slightly overbearing cockiness that he tempers with irreverent humor. He was stuck between coming here or going to Harvard, and chose Columbia just so he could be in New York. His parents were not happy about this.

"So you just told them 'No, I'm not going to Harvard?'" Eduardo asks, incredulous. They're standing on the steps of the library, blinking at the sunlight after three hours of frantic review of texts with exciting titles such as, _The Fundamentals of Federal Income Tax Law_. And all Eduardo has to show for his efforts so far is two papercuts on his index finger and a permanent crick in his neck.

"Pretty much."

"And they didn't murder you?"

Divya yawns and stretches in that kind of practiced nonchalance that glosses over significant blood, sweat, and tears produced in the background. Eduardo rolls his eyes at this obvious display of posturing, but that doesn't keep him from glancing at the appealing line of abdominal muscle revealed when his shirt rides up a little.

"They tried. But I'm here, aren't I?" Divya wiggles his eyebrows, two thick brush strokes across his face that make all of his facial expressions seem exaggerated.

Eduardo is amazed. He never made a career out of defying his parents. Even now, on the rare occasions he speaks with his father, they confine themselves to two topics: the weather, and Eduardo's studies. When Gilberto does speak of Saverin's, it's in an offhand matter, just as he would speak of any other major company. He supposes that's the only way his father is able to deal with it.

For appearance's sake, he'd stopped by the sham retirement party Elis had organized on his father's last day as CEO. Gilberto drank too much, too fast and they had to practically carry him out of the store and leave him in his wife's patient if world-weary care. Eduardo doesn't know what Elis expected, really--that he'd be gracious about it? They did their best to keep the infighting behind the scenes out of the paper. Eduardo paid off a few journalists he had ties with to keep coverage of the story short, just a few lines about the company's change of hands buried on page three beneath a story about a warehouse fire down by the docks.

He and Divya part ways, and he runs to catch the crosstown bus through Central Park to get back to his place. Riding on public transportation is something he's had to get used to; he could only treat his new friends to cabs so many times before they began to grumble about being made to feel inferior. He'd been careful to avoid the prep school elite that had consumed most of his social time in adolescence, and many of his current companions were making their way on their own dime or were on a strict budget from their parents. It took Eduardo a while to realize that, just as his secondary school friends had bonded over the commonalities borne from a comfortably affluent childhood, his fellow students often found solidarity in grumbling about the trials of eating tuna or peanut butter sandwiches for dinner five days a week. All the same, he's definitely thinking about moving closer to campus--he's not too sure he'll be able to drag himself out of bed once winter arrives.

Thoughts of Divya circle through his mind. He wants to ask Divya about London, and about Jaipur, where his parents are from. Maybe they could go to India, Eduardo would pay. As he rounds the corner onto 82nd, he thinks about Divya's mouth, and how nice it would be to climb into the shower and jerk off to the possibility of Divya's mouth _on him_.

And he would have done just that, except that Mark Zuckerberg is sitting on the front steps of his building, cracking his knuckles and looking worried. Eduardo goes cold all over.

"Wardo!" He bolts upright and covers the last few feet of space between them. Eduardo fights the urge to turn his back on him.

"What are you doing here, Mark?" He intends for his voice to come out full of all the anger he's supposed to be feeling. Instead it just sounds tired.

Mark's grabs his upper arm; his grip tight enough to bruise . "It's your father, Eduardo. He was just admitted to Lenox Hill. He had another heart attack."

  


..:::..

  
Eduardo fumbles for his wallet when the cab pulls up in front of the emergency room entrance on 77th, but the bills inside don't make sense to him anymore. He shoves what is probably twice the required fare into the driver's hands and jumps out of the car before hurrying into the lobby. For a brief moment, he wishes he were wearing something a little more formal than the polo and khakis he's adopted as his student uniform of sorts. A tie at least.

The bored looking nurse on shift looks up at his frantic face and pulls out a clipboard. "How can I help you?"

"My father, he had a heart attack. I don't know where he is, or how to find him, or--"

"Name?" she runs her tongue over her teeth, then swivels her chair around to where all of the files are kept. Eduardo hates how calm she is about all of this.

"Gilberto Saverin. Please, hurry. Please." He clutches at the edge of the desk, the few seconds until she gets back to him stretching on interminably. Mark is a silent presence at his right, pressing himself a little closer than necessary, like a dog who senses that his master is upset.

"Mr. Saverin is still in surgery at the moment, but you're welcome to stay in waiting room three; the doctor will speak with you as soon as he knows anything."

"Three, three, three," he murmurs to himself, dashing down the wall.

He nearly misses the elevator but for Mark, who cups a hand around his elbow and says, "Slow down, it's right here."

The doors open directly onto the waiting room; he's just in time to see his mother crumple to the floor like a rag doll. Both Elis and a youngish looking doctor are trying to hold her up, but she refuses to stand. The sound of her sobs echoes down the hallway.

"Oh, God," he hears Mark say in a low voice. Eduardo's heart is caught in his throat somewhere; he can't make a sound. In a few long strides he crosses the floor and goes to his knees next to his mother. She doesn't look like herself at all, her hair is in disarray and her usually impeccable makeup is running down her face. Gently, he wraps his arms around her and kisses her on the forehead. The smell of her perfume is tinged with acrid odor of sweat and fear.

"You're Eduardo, I assume?" says the doctor. People are staring at them now, but they can go fuck themselves for all Eduardo cares. "I'm Dr. Schermerhorn."

"I'm his son," Eduardo responds. It sounds like a much more important title than it ever was before. "What happened?"

"He just collapsed after lunch," Elis explained in a shaky voice. "I didn't know what to do."

"Mr. Saverin, your father is still alive, but he has a very weak heart. We've done everything we could to stabilize him this time, but it's going to be touch and go for a while. "

"No, no, no," Regina says, over and over again, before lapsing into Portuguese, very little of which Eduardo can understand. And that, somehow, is the worst thing that's happened today. He can't even comfort his mother right now; she's on the other side of a gulf that he can't cross.

"Come on, Mãe, why don't you sit down," he says, and leads her to a chair. Elis goes to her immediately and wraps her arms around her shoulders, shushing her the way she would a child.

"Thank you for coming, Eduardo," his mother says, after wiping her eyes, "It was very good of you, after the trouble between you and your father."

"I tried to find you at school," says Elis, "but you weren't there. So I sent Mark to your apartment to wait. I'm glad you came, too."

"Of course I came," Eduardo rubs a hand along her back. "You're my family."

Dr. Schermerhorn asks if they'd like to see Gilberto, and so they leave Mark with his still-distraught mother and follow him down a short series of corridors to his room. Eduardo is relieved to see that it's a private suite, but all the clean, open space just makes his father seem that much more small and shriveled in his bed. He's still unresponsive, so there's not to much to do but sit and watch while he sleeps off the anaesthesia.

"I'm sorry, about what we did, Eduardo." She bites her lip and drops her eyes to the floor. He's never see her capitulate like that. "There was probably a better way, I just couldn't see it then. You know how I get impatient. Please don't hate me."

"I don't hate you." Eduardo responds quietly. He never thought he'd get an apology, not from Elis. She and Mark were the same kind of person, content to burn down anything in their path on the way to their ultimate destination. "I'll never understand why you did it, really. But I'm also fairly sure that Pai made me sign something when I started at Saverin's that said I'd always look out for you. And since I am officially on leave and therefore still on payroll, that contract is still valid."

"You couldn't just say 'apology accepted'? Besides, I'm not the one who needs looking after."

"Would _you_ have let me off that easy?"

She considers this for a moment. "Nah."

Elis bends over their father and places her hand over his. "I cause this family so much grief, you know? I didn't say so before because I was embarrassed, but--I got into an argument with Pai earlier this morning. I feel like this is all my fault; he's only fifty-six.

"Elis, you can't blame yourself for his bad habits." He wraps an arm around her shoulder. "What were you fighting about?"

She fiddles with a bit of fuzz on the blanket. "You, of course. I told him that wanted you to come back to Saverin's, maybe work in the legal department."

Eduardo's chest seizes. His untimely departure from the store is and likely always will be a sore spot for him, despite it leading directly to being where he is now.

"I don't think that's such a good idea, actually. There never was enough room for the both of us there, and--I'm happy where I am now. I have something that has nothing to do with our father, and I like that."

"Remember when we used to hide beneath the dress racks and play in the cash registers?" she says, her voice soft.

"How could I forget? We spent all our time there when our nanny decided she wanted the afternoon off. Remember how Hilda in the cafeteria would babysit us?"

Elis shudders. "That woman was horrible. She used to make us eat leftover creamed spinach and rice for lunch."

Their father stirs, like he's listening in on their conversation. Elis leans forward, waiting for him to sit up and say something.

"Daddy?" she tries. He doesn't respond, and the hopeful look on her face falls. "I didn't mean for this to happen, Eduardo. But I wasn't going to let him run the store into the ground, either. He lost his edge after the second attack, and most of his executive staff couldn't put two quarters together to come up with fifty cents. It was time."

He sighs.

"You're right." It is a strangely easy admission to make, now that it's all been behind him for a while. "I hated working there. I always thought that if I could just kept trying I could fix everything. But it was never good enough."

Elis leans her head on his shoulder and laces their fingers together. The monitor tracking their father's heart-rate beeps in a steady counterpoint to the shallow up and down motion of his chest.

"It's okay, Eddie. That's what I'm here for. Besides, Christy says you really like law school."

He smiles a little at the thought of Elis and Christy being friends. He wonders if Elis has met any of Christy's offbeat friends, and what she thinks of them.

"Maybe after I graduate, I'll go down South for a while."

"Don't you dare say that, Eduardo." She pinches him on the arm and he hisses in pain. "We've already got one parent in the hospital, do you want a second?"

Eduardo thinks it's funny that a year ago, they were on opposite sides of this argument. It's just like they say--what a difference a year makes.

They push each other back and forth for a little while, tickling and poking until Elis begs him to stop, which only gives her time enough to catch some air and make another crack at his expense.

"So, there's a young lawyer sitting out there in the lobby that I hear is looking for a new associate. You should talk to him. I hear he's really amazing at corporate litigation."

Eduardo squirms uncomfortably. He's doing well in school. His professors like him and he's holding out hope that he'll be invited to join the law review next year. He spoke with Chris the other day, and they've made tentative plans to have Eduardo come out to San Francisco for a look at the work he's doing there. He's getting better at finding people like him--in the bars, the clubs, the wild parties thrown by Christy's friends. And every time he goes he feels a little less apprehensive about it--that is, until the cops show up to case the joint and make sure there's no back-room sex going on, and Eduardo has to keep his head down and try to control his breathing so he doesn't start to hyperventilate.

But that's not the point. The _point_ is that he's a work in progress, and he wants to keep moving forward, not back. And although he still feels that undeniable pull towards Mark, there's a part of him that remains wary of enduring that kind of hurt a second time.

"I don't know, Elis. Maybe it's best if I just leave all that behind me."

"Mark really misses you, Eduardo. He left his office in the middle of the day to come down here when I couldn't find you earlier, and then volunteered to hunt you down. I think you should give him another chance--he was only doing what I asked him to, after all. Mom even likes him. We all went to lunch together once."

" _Mom_ likes him?"

"I know, it doesn't make sense. I think she just really has a thing for power hungry, slightly evil men."

Eduardo waits a beat. "Oh, I see. It all makes sense now. My problem is genetic."

  


..:::...

  
 _Epilogue--One Year Later_

There's something distinctly satisfying about listening to the loud crunch of glass beneath Dustin's foot, followed by an earsplitting "Mazel tov!" and a loud wave of applause. Elis looks positively gleeful, and Dustin's face could not possibly be any redder.

"Dustin and my sister. I still don't know how she got our father to agree to that one," Eduardo muses to himself as he's jostled around by aunts and uncles all trying to get a closer look at the bride. It's still a shock to him, has been a shock to him since they first announced it a year ago.

"Your sister is sometimes frighteningly clever," Mark replies. Elis' wedding day has not dulled his sister's propensity for treachery one bit, so he and Mark are seated next to one another due to the machinations of a clever usher no doubt employed for that specific purpose.

"It's more likely that she just told him that she was going to marry Dustin whether he liked it or not."

Their friendship is still tentative at this point, and in high pressure social situations Eduardo tends to try and avoid Mark by default. Part of him suspects that Elis' marriage to Dustin is part of an elaborate plot to get them to spend more time together.

It just might work.

Try as he might to ignore it, the low burn of attraction he feels towards Mark refuses to subside, even if it's a bit obscured by a lingering sense of betrayal.

"Did you know he was going to propose?"

Mark bites his lip, hesitant. It makes Eduardo's stomach feel funny, like it's full of butterflies.

"Back when we were working together, she'd show up at the office whenever Dustin was free to "discuss things". Sometimes I had to get Erica to shut them up, you could hear them two doors down."

"Seriously? Ugh. Maybe we shouldn't leave them alone until after the reception. I don't know if we should trust them to their own devices."

Mark makes a face at the idea of Dustin having sex, and Eduardo laughs out loud.

"Stop being disgusting, you two. This is beautiful," says Christy, whose eyes are wet. She's been Elis' close confidante throughout all of this, right up to designing the chuppah, which is made from discarded painting frames, with a canopy made of stretched canvas. Regina cried when she first saw it, but Gilberto talked her around, something which surprised everyone. The combination of a third heart attack and retirement has mellowed him out, much to everyone's relief.

The crowd begins to disperse, and they let themselves be jostled by the flow of people. At one point, a white-haired grandmother compliments Christy on her choice of jewelry--she's wearing the snake watch today, despite Eduardo's repeated requests that she choose something more conservative.

Mark takes advantage of the crush of people to brush his fingers against Eduardo's. A little electric buzz runs up his arm, and he turns to look at Mark sharply.

There's the tiniest hint of a smile on Mark's face, breaking up all his angles. It makes Eduardo want to yank on one of the curls sticking out from beneath his kippah.

Eduardo pulls his hand away. "How am I even supposed to trust you?" He tries to keep his voice low so that no one overhears them.

"It wasn't a personal attack, Wardo."

Eduardo buries his hands in his pockets, disappointed. Some things never change, and Mark is one of them. Eduardo tries to lose him in the crowd, but moving in any direction is an uphill battle.

"Look. I only wanted what was best, for you, and Elis, and yes, for the firm. And I'm sorry it went down the way it did." The annoyed expression on his face softens a little. "It's been a year, and I still think about the lake. I think about it every day. Come on, Wardo. Please."

It's still a demand, not a question. And there are way too many people in the synagogue for this to be a safe move, from Eduardo's father, who still refers to Eduardo's lovers as his "friends," right up to Mayor Lindsay and his wife, and a smattering of representatives from the who's who of Manhattan aristocracy. Eduardo heard that Elis had even invited Andy Warhol, but he hasn't had visual confirmation of that yet. He hopes for all of their sakes that he's not actually around.

Bottom line--everyone is here. Everyone who matters, friends and people who could ruin him both. But his resolve begins to crumble at the hopeful look in Mark's eyes. It's that same look he saw on his face that night in Central Park when they looked across the water and pondered everything they were, and everything they could be.

Eduardo takes a shaky breath before meeting the expectant look in Mark's eyes, then extends his hand and links their little fingers together. It's just something small. It's kind of silly, even.

But it's a start.


End file.
